


Derplock

by Emilybells



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 161,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilybells/pseuds/Emilybells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scottie and Emily are transported to London by a "dimension-hopping TARDIS machine" laptop. Lost and alone with only two bags and three hundred quid, they run into some familiar faces... and promptly make fools of themselves. (Original script, OCs/non-Mary Sue self inserts and a boatload of stupid.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Derp

Scottie sat up with a gasp and immediately threw himself back down onto the pillow. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed or not, it was so dark in his room, but he supposed it didn’t matter either way. The blackness acted as a blindfold as effectively as his eyelids would’ve, and as long as his eyes were not burdened with the task of seeing, his mind was free to make shit up in place of that lost sense. He was sure he was staring up at his familiar blank ceiling, but he couldn’t shake off the sight of writhing tentacles and a suit sleeve reaching out for him.

“Wonder if Slender Man wears Westwood,” he said to the room.

Something shifted on his left. He could hear it moving.

Scottie waited about five seconds to make sure his heart wouldn’t explode, which he knew was very naive of him because he had passed health science in high school, before he launched himself out of bed. He expected to meet a wall close on his right, because unreasonable curfews had long since forced him to memorize the layout of his own bedroom in the dark, and he remained under the delusion that that was where he still was. Instead, he tripped over a table and nearly killed himself.

Scottie flailed around a bit in surprise and somehow managed to keep from knocking anything over. The echoes of the racket he’d made dispersed, and the Thing shifted again, then went silent. Scottie searched the top of the table in the dark by smacking the stuff on it with his open palm until he found a small lamp and turned it on.

The lamp was a piece of shit, to be honest. Its dull glow barely lit up the outlines of objects not more than ten feet away, but it was enough for Scottie to see that he had no idea where he was. It looked like a cheap hotel room, with ugly wallpaper and half-heartedly matching furniture, and a second twin bed pushed against the opposite wall with something already in it.

When Scottie noticed that, he peed a little. He calmly assured himself that he was about to be disemboweled by a psycho kidnapper and dumped in a river somewhere, probably in pieces.

The teenager approached the lump curled up in the other bed and poked it, then dove back under his own covers. The lump grunted at him and didn’t move. Scottie tried again. This time, the lump spoke.

“Hhhnngggghhh,” it groaned. “Five m’re min’t’s, mom...”

“Emily?” Scottie called. He got up and pulled the sheets back away from the lump’s familiar face, just to be sure. “Emily!” he said, happily.

“G’way,” the girl mumbled and rolled over. She snatched the covers back and shoved her head under her pillow.

Annoyed, Scottie jumped up onto the mattress with his friend and, bracing his foot against her lower back, kicked her into the small space between the bed and the wall. She went, with a yelp and a wild grab for his ankle, which he easily shook off.

Scottie went back and sat cross-legged on the edge of his own bed to put some distance between them in case she decided to throw something at him. Emily emerged from behind the mattress moments later, struggling to disentangle herself from her sheets that had somehow gotten twisted around her legs, and she squinted into the shadows.

“What the hell, man? Who... Who are you and what are you doing in my room?” she demanded. Emily turned to her left and screamed at the top of her lungs, “MOOOOOOOOM!”

Scottie belatedly realized that he was crouched and staring at her all creepy-like, with the lamp behind his head so that she couldn’t see his face. Oops. He stood and made to turn on the lamp on her bedside table a couple of feet in front of him, but when he moved forward, Emily flinched and brandished a pillow at him.

“Don’t make me kill you,” she warned.

“With a pillow?” he asked.

“Especially with a pillow,” Emily said, and raised the instrument of murder over her head.

Scottie ignored her and turned the lamp on anyway. He was promptly smacked so hard that he saw stars for a moment. Emily reared back with the pillow again and paused.

“Scottie?” The boy raised his hands to be level with his face in a please don’t shoot me kind of way. “Scottie!” Emily squealed and vaulted over the bed. She threw her arms around him, spun in a circle until he was dizzy, and then shoved him back in a way that implied she expected him to keep his feet. Scottie plopped down on the edge of his mattress and tried not to throw up. “Are we actually talking to each other, face-to-face?” Emily asked, looking delirious with joy.

“It seems like it,” Scottie said with a queasy smile. “That, or one of us is a very convincing hologram.”

“Oh my gosh this is so awesome!” Emily was practically vibrating up and down. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you in real life! Now I can actually tacklehug you instead of just typing it out and pressing ‘send!’”

Scottie laughed and stood again when he felt stable enough. “I know, right? You look weird when you’re not on the other end of a webcam.” He glared suspiciously at the top of her head. “Also, taller...”

“Aaaw, thanks!” Emily said and hugged him again. This time, she kept an arm around his shoulders. “So what about the others?”

“You are taller than me,” Scottie said, outraged. “How did this happen?”

“Are you hiding more of our internet friends somewhere?” Emily looked around and squatted to peek under both beds. “Soul? Ryn? Nat?”

“I was supposed to be the Sherlock in this relationship, how the hell are you taller than me?”

“Shelby? Blaise?” Emily walked over to a large cabinet not far away and pulled it open, as if expecting someone to be in there. “Oh, Scottie. Please tell me you brought Blaise with you. I just really really really wanna see her creep on someone in person.”

“I am so short,” Scottie mumbled in despair. He looked up at Emily, confused. “Wait, what? No, I... I didn’t bring anyone with me. I’m not even sure how I got here.”

Emily froze and turned to stare at him. “So... you mean you didn’t drug me and take me from my home in the middle of the night to a shady hotel?”

“No,” he said. “But now I feel like I should’ve thought of that first.”

“Then... who did?” Emily asked. “And where the heck are we?”

“I was hoping you would know...”

They both sat back on their respective beds, facing each other. Emily rubbed her forehead. “The last thing I remember... You, me, and Shelby were staying up late watching Sherlock together, chatting...”

Scottie giggled. “Oh, yes. And freaking out about everything that happened.” He affected a high-pitched valley girl voice. “Aaah oh my Goooood it’s the purple shirt, aaah! Look look look, his buttons are about to pop off! Aaah!”

Emily hit him with her pillow again, but otherwise ignored him. “Then Shelby had to go to bed early,” she said. “Somewhere around one. Right?”

“You say ‘early’ like it’s completely unacceptable for anyone to fall asleep before then,” Scottie said. “And due to time zones, it was much later for me, thank you very much.”

He was ignored some more. “Oh, that’s right!” Emily said, jumping up. “She had church or something in the morning, didn’t she? And after she left, we watched Reichenbach again, and uh...” Emily squinted, struggling for words.

“Aaand that’s when I fell asleep on my keyboard,” Scottie said. He rubbed the greenish-purple bruise on his temple that was starting to sting, and Emily laughed at him.

“I was already in bed with my laptop,” she admitted. “Guess I fell asleep, too.”

Scottie hummed. “Weird.”

“Yeah...” Emily turned and spotted a few bags piled up by the door of their room. “Hey, is that our stuff?” She ran off to investigate, while Scottie wandered towards the only window he could see. Heavy curtains were pulled closed over it, but a little bit of light managed to slip its way through the gaps. “Well, there’s a suitcase here full of my clothes and bathroom things,” Emily said as she dug around in a mess of her shirts. “And I think this duffle bag is yours.”

“Um, Emily?” Scottie had pulled the curtains aside out of curiosity, and the glow of the early morning illuminated the room far better than both of their measly lamps could do combined. “I think you might wanna come see this.”

“What is it?” Emily joined him at the window and gaped. “Oh, my.”

Big Ben stared back at them from a distance, partially obscured by a wave a fog.

“This definitely isn’t Tennessee.”

“Man,” Emily mumbled. “Isn’t SoCal, either.”

The two of them discussed this recent discovery at length as they inspected the rest of their room. The place itself was fairly standard, exactly what you might expect from an average hotel, but the real puzzle lay within their bags. Someone had left them about a week’s worth of their favorite clothes, toiletries, personal electronic gadgets, and three hundred pounds (which Scottie claimed was worth about five hundred US dollars).

The duo found the attached bathroom and took turns getting dressed out of their pajamas, bickering about what to do the entire time. Eventually, it was decided that Emily would go interrogate the clerk at the front desk because Scottie was too shy to do it, and then they would leave and find some nice place to have breakfast and blow their money.

“But what happens after that?” Emily asked. “We’ll still be stranded in England somewhere, miles from home.”

“We can play it by ear,” Scottie said, and shoved her out into the hallway. “Then it’ll be even more impressive when we don’t die!”

By the time Emily came back five minutes later, Scottie was hanging upside down off the edge of his bed with his laptop open and balanced on his stomach.

“We were right,” Emily said. “The clerk confirmed it, we’re in London, England. Gave me a weird look when I asked that. Apparently, we’re paid up for one night, and seeing as it’s already ten... we have to be out of here in two hours. What are you doing?”

“This isn’t my laptop,” Scottie said without looking up.

“Pardon?” Emily came to stand beside him. “Then whose is it?”

“I mean, it is a very convincing replica of my laptop,” Scottie said as he sat up and turned the machine around for Emily to see. He rubbed his fingers over the strange symbols carved into the plastic beside the touch pad. “But I am relatively sure my laptop didn’t used to have ancient curses placed upon it.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Emily asked.

“Eh... nothing. Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” Scottie turned his attention back to his computer and continued typing as if he’d never been interrupted. “It’s just that one of the characters in this book I’m writing made her laptop into some kind of dimension-hopping TARDIS machine or... whatever. I haven’t actually watched Doctor Who. Don’t worry about it.”

Emily sighed and fetched her own laptop from her suitcase. “Are you on the hotel’s wireless internet connection?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Scottie said. “Their password is the phone number for the front desk, which I found taped up beside the door. That’s usually what hotels and restaurants do, so no one forgets it. And anyway, I’ve been talking to a couple of the guys on tinychat. Not many of them are still up. It’s apparently somewhere in the three AM range back home.”

“Have you told them anything about... y’know?” Emily asked.

“Yes. Shelby’s mostly pissed that she didn’t get to come, too.” Scottie’s lip twitched. “I told her it was her fault for going to bed so early.”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Emily agreed. She sat down on her own bed and opened her laptop. Thankfully, hers didn’t have any crazy symbols scratched into it, or else she’d have to kill something. She quickly got online and went to their club’s chatroom, where Scottie was unsuccessfully trying to explain their situation to a couple of their internet friends. To settle the argument, Emily got on her webcam and showed everyone Big Ben outside their window, and then she sat back down beside Scottie. “So, yeah. We’re here,” she said.

“Halp,” Scottie said, and then he waved at the camera like a dork. “HI MOM! Look, I’m on TV!”

Willow and Nat immediately responded that they were very proud of him.

“Anyways. Back to business,” he said and threw his arms in the air. “And Another Note Productions is still in existence. Yay!”

“Um. Yay!” Emily replied. “Why would it not be?”

“Dimension-hopping TARDIS machine, remember?” Scottie said. “It makes sense, I swear.”

“Uh... what?”

“Okay, I lied.” Scottie shrugged and nodded in the direction of Emily’s cell phone lying on the bedside table. “I called my home phone number, and it’s been disconnected. Hope you don’t mind. Also, I tried emailing my dad, but his email address doesn’t exist anymore, apparently. You, uh. You might wanna try calling someone yourself, just to see if your family is still alive and stuff.”

They weren’t. Even Julia, Emily’s little sister who was also a part of their AAN group, was nowhere to be found. It seemed like all of her accounts on the websites they visited regularly had been deleted.

“So all of our responsibilities in America have just poofed,” Scottie said. “No parents. No family. No friends. I bet if I emailed my English teacher, he’d never remember having me in class. I wonder if my doggies still exist.”

“No baby sisters,” Emily said and threw her phone down onto the bed. “I actually miss her now, the little twit. This is like a lonely, friendless wonderland.”

“On the other hand,” Scottie said, “I think it’s the best vacation ever. No one around to bug us except for our rockin’ online buddies! Hooray!”

There was an extended silence between the two teens and the chat room. Obviously, no one else was as excited about the idea as Scottie was.

“Hey. Let’s go find a place to eat breakfast. Then we’ll figure out how to survive in London with less than five hundred dollars between us.”

Emily and Scottie said goodbye to everyone at AAN and ventured out of their hotel for the first time, walking in search of a “posh little cafe” that the clerk at the front desk had recommended to them. Scottie kept a firm grip on Emily’s jacket sleeve for the entire trip and jumped every time another pedestrian came too close.

“Look,” Emily said. “I know we’ve only known each other in person for about an hour, and I know it’s like your ‘thing’ or whatever to be the awkward shy nerd, and I know we somehow crossed the Atlantic Ocean in our sleep last night, but... you’re being exceptionally weird right now.”

“My life sucks,” Scottie said confidently.

“Um, okay.”

“My family consists entirely of rich but otherwise stereotypically redneck assholes. I’ve spent most of my life in mansions in the middle of the woods surrounded by married cousins who isolate me from society and try to buy my love with roadkill steaks. I’m never allowed out of the house. I’ve only been to the mall without my mom once, and the longest I’ve been left at home alone for is three hours.” Scottie narrowly avoided bumping into an older lady and ended up almost tripping Emily with the force of his overcorrection. “Cities and people make me nervous.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Emily said as she wrenched her jacket away from him.

“I assure you, none of my awkwardness has anything to do with it being my ‘thing.’”

They could see the cafe now, not too far away. They concentrated on getting to the front door in silence.

“Well, I grew up in Southern California...”

“Fuck you, Emily.”

The food was a bit overcooked, but otherwise wonderful. They practiced talking in “British speak” and giggled about their waiter’s accent, and then they had to ask for change for a one hundred pound note (or rather, Emily did). The two of them paid and got back to the hotel just in time to gather their belongings and get kicked out. They (smartly) decided to wander around town at random and look for something to do, while Emily taught Scottie all there was to know about city life.

“...every single one of these cabs you see here can and will run you over and leave you for dead in the middle of the street,” she said. “And when the cops finally scrape your mangled corpse off the asphalt, not one of these jaywalkers will admit to having seen anything. Not if it means wasting a second of their lunch breaks. Now, as for subways--”

“OH MY GOD LOOK IT’S A PIGEON!” Scottie screeched.

It wasn’t a pigeon. It didn’t even vaguely look like a pigeon, but in all fairness, Scottie had never really seen a pigeon before. The Bird That Was Not a Pigeon was pecking around a spilled box of french fries with its brethren, and they all seemed mildly unconcerned with Scottie running towards them flailing. They didn’t even fly off until the teen almost trampled them in his excitement.

Scottie waved at them as they disappeared behind a building. “SEE YOU LATER, MR. PIGEON AND FRIENDS!”

Emily walked up behind him. “Aw, look. You scared them.”

“With my intense, burning love for their adorableness, maybe.”

“Most likely, yeah.”

“Oh hey, look. That’s a familiar sight, innit?” Scottie hefted his duffle bag over his shoulder and motioned towards a fair haired man in a sweater limping away from them with the help of a cane. “Best. Vacation. Ever. Free trip to London, and a sneak peek at Dr. Watson’s backside. Now all we have to do is stalk a random stranger who looks like Sherlock, and we’ll be--”

“Scottie!” Emily gasped and slapped at his upper arm, but she missed and caught his face. “Looklooklook!”

“Ow! What?”

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Scottie squinted in the direction Emily was pointing and then looked back at her, confused. “Scottie, where the hell are your glasses?” she demanded.

“Oh! Right,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I wear those, don’t I?” Emily groaned and scrubbed her hands over her eyes. “I’m sorry, I forget sometimes!”

“I don’t care, just shut up and put them on or you’re going to miss it!”

Scottie dug his glasses out of his bag with a grumble and shoved them on to his face. “Okay, now what am I looking at?”

The blonde man Scottie had pointed out earlier was stopped at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change so he could get through without being squashed by the traffic. As the teens stared, the man sighed heavily, shifted his weight around, glanced at his watch, and then moved to lean against the nearby pole to relieve the stress on his leg. The man then glanced back over his shoulder as if worried that someone would protest his position, and Scottie got his first good look at the man’s face.

Scottie knew that face. In fact, he’d likely spent more time than would be considered healthy attempting to memorize that face.

“No way,” he said. “Does Martin Freeman live in London? He probably does. All British actors live in London, right?”

“But if that is Martin Freeman, why is he dressed up like John?” Emily asked. “And he’s walking with the cane, too. That doesn’t make sense.”

“God, he’s ten times cuter in real life, even if it is from behind at a distance. Or rather, especially from behind.”

“Don’t make me hit you again,” Emily warned.

“Do you think they could be filming a new Sherlock episode in which John’s limp comes back?” Scottie asked.

“But then where are the cameras and crew? And why would they be filming him acting shifty at a crosswalk? I guess he could be on his way to the set... But that doesn’t explain the cane, then. Or why Martin Freeman isn’t being swarmed by fangirls right now. He’s famous enough for that, right? Scottie?” Emily glanced back at her friend only to find him gone. The teen was tottering towards the man at the crosswalk, looking both terrified and hopeful at the same time. “Scottie, what are you doing!”

“I am going to say hi,” Scottie said, jaw set.

“Oh no you aren’t!” Emily latched onto his arm and dug her heels into the concrete. “What happened to being shy, huh?!”

“I can be embarrassed later. Right now, I’m running on fangirl joy.”

“Think about this logically--”

“I don’t have enough blood in my adrenaline system for that.”

Emily sighed and let go of him. She crushed her suitcase to her stomach in his arm’s place and hurried along beside him. “Okay. Whatever. Just... please tell me you’re not going to be too big of a creep, alright? I don’t want to get a restraining order against me on my first day in London.”

“No promises!” Scottie sang. “Hey! Mr. Freeman? Excuse me, Mr. Freeman!”

The light changed and the man hobbled to the other side of the street before they could get there, and Emily and Scottie had to jog to catch up. The man didn’t acknowledge his name being shouted. He was seemingly trying to run away from them, with his head down and collar up, walking at a pace that was just a little too fast to be believable for someone with a cane. Despite his best efforts, the man was still limping, and Scottie and Emily were a lot younger than him.

“Excuse me, sir?” Scottie tapped his elbow, and the man finally stopped and turned to look at them. “Um, hi! You’re Martin Freeman, right? I’m gonna try not to be too obnoxious here, but I j-just wanted to say that I-think-you’re-totally-rad and stuff, so... A-Also I very much like your face. Like, a lot.”

“Erm,” Emily said. “Hello. I’d really like it if you’d sign my laptop. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to I guess.”

The man stared at them both. “Sorry? Do I know you two?”

It was definitely his voice.

“Uh, no,” Scottie said. “But we’re really big fans of yours!”

“He is,” Emily corrected. “I’m just... an average-sized, not-creepy one.”

“Look, I think you kids have got me confused with another bloke,” the man said kindly, but with a hint of weariness in his voice. “I’m not this, uh... Morgan Freeman, or whoever.”

“What,” Scottie said flatly and glanced at Emily. “If it looks like a Martin Freeman and sounds like a Martin Freeman, chances are it’s a Martin Freeman. He’s even dressed like John and everything!”

“Sorry, did you say John?” the man asked. “Because that’s me. John Watson. But I’m not famous or anything, and I certainly don’t have any fans. Maybe there’s been a mix up?”

Scottie and Emily stared at him for a very long time, making Not-Martin-Freeman shift uneasily.

“I don’t geddit,” Scottie said.

“Maybe Martin cosplays as his own characters and wanders around town just to mess with people?” Emily offered. “I mean, that’s what I would do if I were a famous actor.”

“I told you, I’m not this Martin fellow,” the man said in annoyance. “My name is John Watson. I’m just a regular, unemployed doctor. Look, are you kids lost or something? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead, we ate them.”

“Scottie.”

“We think they’re trapped in an alternate dimension somewhere in America.”

“Scottie.”

“The states?” Not-Martin-Freeman’s eyebrows shot up and nearly hit his hairline. “Oh, don’t tell me you two are here all by your lonesomes!”

“This is impossible,” Emily said. She was rubbing her eyes again. “He can’t be John Watson. Because if John Watson is here, then that must mean that we...”

Emily and Scottie glanced at each other. John fucking Watson made a confused sort of noise, just a few feet in front of them.

A car door slammed and all three jumped and turned to look. “Thank you,” a baritone voice rumbled as its owner handed the taxi driver a bill and then started towards the trio. “Oh, John! Hello!”

“Oh my God oh my God oh my God it’s him,” Scottie squeaked and threw his arms around Emily.

“Scottie, you’re crushing my--”

John stepped towards the newcomer with a pleasantly surprised smile. “Ah, Mr. Holmes!”

They clasped hands and the second man grinned at him. “Please. Just Sherlock.” Scottie choked and buried his face in Emily’s shoulder, which attracted the men’s attention. “Who’s this?” Sherlock asked, suspicious.

“I don’t know these kids,” John said. “They approached me.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, oh my God,” Scottie squealed.

“Ah! Fans of my website, I see,” Sherlock said and puffed out his chest.

“Yes! That’s it! Your website,” Emily said. “We, uh. We love it. Big fans. It’s great, with all the... the Sherlock-y things on it, and... yes. Scottie, let go of me.”

“Even with the coat and scarf and everything,” Scottie said as Emily pried him off of her. “Jesus Christ, look at him, he’s perfection. With those eyes and cheekbones and hair and lips--”

John stiffened and tugged on Sherlock’s coat sleeve. “Mr. Hol--er, Sherlock. Maybe we should get going? What about that... that flat you were telling me about?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but his eyes narrowed with interest. He gave the two teens a once-over.

“Oh, look! He’s deducing me!” Scottie said. “This is so exciting!”

Both of the teens had seen the word-vomit Sherlock was prone to when making a deduction, but being the focus of it in person was a much different experience. More violent. Less like vomit and more like an explosion, unless you’re talking about an infant with pyloric stenosis.

“Two minors from the US,” Sherlock blurted. “Been wandering around lost, I can tell by the scuffs on your shoes. So you haven’t been in London long enough to familiarize yourself with it, nor are you intending to stay for an extended period of time, judging by the size of your luggage. Got a bit of money on you--crumbs from breakfast, there--though I’m assuming it’s not nearly enough, otherwise you’d have a place to go--somewhere to live. I’d say you were running away from home, if not for your relationship...”

“Their relationship?” John interrupted. “Oh, er. Sorry, continue...”

“Hmm, yes. Relationship. The boy--gay, obviously, so not boyfriend and girlfriend--”

Scottie raised a finger. “Um, technically--”

“Not siblings, either,” Sherlock continued. “Brands of clothes and shampoo are on entirely different ends of the manufacturing spectrum, so not from the same household...”

“When did he sniff our shampoo?” Emily whispered to Scottie, who shrugged.

“I wonder,” Sherlock said with a dangerous glint in his eyes. He took a step forward, towering over both of them. “How did you get to London, then? You obviously didn’t take a plane or a boat, looking at your hair. And as for how much you seem to know about my person, far more than what one would find on my website--”

“That’s brilliant,” John breathed.

Sherlock jumped back and turned to look at him. “Pardon?”

“Er, nothing,” John mumbled. “Just... I mean... How do you do that? It’s like you can read people’s minds!”

“Oh!” Sherlock smiled. “Ha. Well, no, not exactly like that...”

“You guys are hot.”

“Scottie!” Emily clapped a hand over her friend’s mouth and started backing away. “Um, I’m so sorry for bothering you two gentlemen. We should be going now. Come on, Scottie...”

John tried to look like he wasn’t concerned, but Sherlock noticed. “Uh, okay. Bye, then?”

“Actually,” Sherlock said. “We can’t very well let a couple of poor, lost children wander the streets of London all alone with no money, can we?”

Everyone looked at him in surprise, and he affected an expression of innocence on his face.

“Oh! Er, yes,” John said, relieved. “I’d feel right bad about that, I would. What do you propose we do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock smirked. “The flat you came here to inspect, Doctor. There’s another one available within the same building, 221c. Perhaps these two could stay there? At least for the time being.”

“Wait, really?” Scottie said.

“Is this serious?” Emily asked. “Are we being punk’d?”

Both of them glanced around, looking for hidden cameras.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” John said, then paused and bit his lip. “Well, I mean. As long as it’s no trouble, of course?”

“Certainly not!” Sherlock said. “And the landlady would be delighted. She loves young ones, taking care of them and all.”

John released the breath he was holding and smiled. “Great. Great! So uh, where is this flat you’re talking about again?” Sherlock pointed in amusement at the door not far up the street from them that read 221b, and John blushed. “Oh. Right. Well, don’t I feel embarrassed...”

“How did we not notice that there,” Emily said, horrified at her own lack of perceptiveness.

“You see, but you do not observe,” Sherlock replied loftily and led them towards the famous flat, coat swishing.

“This is the place, then?” John asked over Sherlock’s banging on the door. “It’s quite the prime spot. Must be expensive.”

“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, has given me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida.” Sherlock sniffed and tried to look nonchalant. “I was able to help out.”

“Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?” John asked with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock, Scottie, and Emily said at the same time, “Oh no, I ensured it.”

All four of them stood in panicked silence for a moment.

“Er,” John began. “What?”

“MINDMELD,” Scottie shouted happily.

“I think what he means is... we’d be delighted to take the flat under you guys,” Emily said.

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, but that was when Mrs. Hudson answered the door and shooed them all inside. Everyone was properly introduced to each other--Mrs. Hudson was ecstatic about having children in the house, as predicted--and Sherlock took John upstairs while the teens were shown around 221c. Unlike in the TV show, the bottom flat held a dusty table, a few chairs, and two twin beds that Scottie greatly enjoyed bouncing on.

“Really, we insist.”

Mrs. Hudson scoffed and shoved the money back at Emily. “Oh, don’t worry about it, dears. We’ll discuss the rent with Sherlock later. Now, just leave your things here, you can get settled in some other time. Let’s go see how the boys are faring!”

Scottie flopped off the bed he’d claimed as his own and excitedly went to follow the older woman upstairs, but Emily grabbed his elbow and trailed behind.

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird?” she whispered.

“What is?”

“How everything’s just... smoothing itself over. I don’t like it. It’s making me paranoid.”

“It’s called good luck, Emily. Don’t question it.”

Sherlock was awkwardly shuffling loose papers around on his desk when they entered. “Um, well. Obviously I can, uh... straighten things up... a bit,” he was saying. He shuffled more papers without actually sorting any of them.

John looked like he was trying not to laugh. His eyes landed on the skull on the mantel and he pointed at it with his cane. “That’s a skull.”

“Friend of mine.” Sherlock stabbed some letters into the wood of the mantel with a knife. “Or, well. I say friend...”

“I wonder what your skull would look like on my wall,” Scottie whispered with an airy Irish accent.

“Scottie, no. Stop that,” Emily said, glancing around. “They’re going to become suspicious if we keep quoting them and their future selves...”

“What do you think then, Dr. Watson?” Mrs. Hudson asked with a pleasant smile. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms?”

John turned around and frowned at her, confused. “Of course we’ll be needing two...”

Sherlock hid his smirk behind a box he was moving.

“Are you sure, Dr. Watson?” Scottie asked innocently.

“Oh, don’t worry dear, there’s all sorts around here,” Mrs. Hudson said as she wandered into the kitchen. “Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones, you know.”

“What? We’re not...” John motioned towards Sherlock helplessly, and the other man just shrugged and continued rearranging things. “I’ve only first met this guy yesterday!”

“Oh, my,” Emily gasped. “You sure do move fast, Dr. Watson.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson shouted from the kitchen. “Oh, my boy. Look at the mess you’ve made.”

John threw himself down in the nearest armchair and glowered at them all in silence for a moment. “I looked you up on the internet last night,” he told Sherlock with a tense smile.

“Anything interesting?” Sherlock asked, attempting to look like he wasn’t listening intently.

“Found your website. The Science of Deduction.”

Sherlock perked up. “Really? What did you think?” John raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock frowned back.

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie... and an airline pilot by his left thumb?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a nod. When John gave him a look, he elaborated. “It’s the same way I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“How?” John pressed, leaning forward.

“What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? Thought that’d be right up your street,” Mrs. Hudson said as she stepped back into the living room with a newspaper. “Three of them, all exactly the same...”

Scottie suddenly gasped and ran to the window to peek down at the police car parked under it. “Oh my God yes. I am uber excited for this part, you have no idea.”

“Four.” Sherlock’s voice came from over Scottie’s shoulder. “There’s been a fourth, and something’s different this time.” Scottie skipped back to Emily’s side and waited, bouncing from foot to foot, as Lestrade stomped up the stairs and into the flat. “Where?” Sherlock asked him.

“Bridgestone, Lauriston Gardens.” Lestrade noticed Scottie and Emily and smiled at them. Scottie squeaked back. “Why d’you have a couple of brats in your place, Sherlock? Never thought you’d be one for kids.”

“Ignore them,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me unless there’s something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah.”

Lestrade’s face hardened. “This one did. Will you come?”

“Yes,” Emily said.

“No,” Sherlock told her, and then turned back to Lestrade. “Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson...”

Sherlock groaned. “Anderson won’t work with me!”

“Well he won’t be your assistant,” Lestrade said, scowling.

“But I need an assistant!”

“I CAN BE YOUR ASSISTANT,” Scottie shouted.

“Will you stop--”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade said loudly. “Will you come or not?”

“Yes!” Emily said again.

Sherlock sighed. “Not in the police car. I’ll be right behind.”

Lestrade let out a breath and nodded. “Thank you.” Sherlock waited until the DI was safely out of sight before he exploded with words again.

“Brilliant! Yes! Oh, four serial suicides and now a note! Ah! It’s Christmas!” Sherlock did a blissful piruet across the room to grab his coat from where he left it. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.”

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and wandered back into the kitchen. “I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.”

“Something cold will do! John.” Sherlock turned to his new flatmate and tied his scarf around his neck. “Have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Emily, Scottie, behave. Don’t wait up!”

“Yes, Mom,” Emily replied, but the detective was already jogging down the stairs.

“Aw, I wanted to go,” Scottie mumbled and flopped onto the couch.

“Look at him, dashing about!” Mrs. Hudson patted John’s shoulder. “My husband used to be the same.”

“He’s not my--eh, nevermind.”

“You’re more the sitting down type, I can tell,” she said. “I’ll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg.”

“Damn my leg!” John shouted. Everyone jumped and looked at him. He sighed and stared at his shoes, rubbing the offending appendage. “Sorry, so sorry... It’s just that sometimes, this bloody thing...”

“I understand, dear, I’ve got a hip.”

“A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you,” John said as he picked up the discarded newspaper.

“I’ll have one too please, if it’s not too much trouble?” Emily said.

“Just this once, dears,” Mrs. Hudson said as she walked back downstairs. “I’m not your housekeeper.”

“And a couple of biscuits as well, if you’ve got them...”

“Not your housekeeper!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” Emily called.

“Heehee, look. Sherlock has one of these sudoku Rubik’s cube things,” Scottie said and got up to pluck the toy off of the detective’s desk.

“Scottie, you might not want to touch that. No way he’ll not notice, and who knows what he’ll do to you if you mess it up,” Emily warned.

“But I wanna be a smarty-pants too,” Scottie whined and started twisting the sides seemingly at random.

Emily made a disgruntled noise. After a pause, she walked over and sneakily began to reach for the violin case lying on the desk.

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock purred from the doorway, having slunk in without anyone noticing. Emily guiltily jumped back and wound her fingers in her hair. “In fact, you’re an army doctor...”

John stood in surprise and straightened his sweater. “Ahem. Yes.”

“Any good?”

“Very good.”

Sherlock stalked towards him playfully. “Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Pause.

“Wanna see some more?” Sherlock asked, looking like an excited child.

“Oh, God yes,” John replied just as eagerly. Sherlock started back down the stairs, and John pulled on his jacket as he followed. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea! We’re going out!”

Scottie put the cube back on the desk and he and Emily hurried after them. “Hey, we wanna come too!”

“Yes, take us with you,” Emily said. “We can help you with your case.”

“Absolutely not,” John replied from the bottom of the stairs. “A crime scene is no place for children!”

Sherlock paused in the front doorway to pull on his gloves. “Babysitting would only get in my way, and I don’t want anything slowing me down right now,” he drawled. “Come along, John.”

“I don’t think you understand, Mr. Holmes.” Emily pushed her way around John and approached Sherlock. “We could legitimately speed up this case, if only you’d let us--”

“No.”

“It’s not like we’re retarded toddlers,” Scottie said. “We’re old enough to sit quietly in the corner and not cause any trouble.”

“I said no. I don’t want you there, John doesn’t want you there. End of discussion.” Sherlock turned to sneer at them. “Go find a permanent place of residence while we’re out, will you?”

“Ouch,” Emily said with a wince.

John hesitated. “Um, I have no clue how long we’ll be gone. If we’re not back by dinner, ask Mrs. Hudson? Order some take out, or help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge--”

“That’s probably a bad idea, considering,” Scottie mumbled.

“Yes, yes. We’re not completely helpless, John,” Emily said and rolled her eyes. “We do know how to feed ourselves, I promise we won’t starve to death in the next three hours.”

“Jooohn, let’s goooo,” Sherlock whined. “We are not signing up to be their mummy and daddy!”

Mrs. Hudson came out of her own place next to 221c. “Are the both of you leaving?”

“Possible suicides? Four of them?” Sherlock said and grabbed her by the shoulders. “There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!” He kissed her on the cheek, making her giggle and swat at his arm.

“Oh, look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.”

Sherlock scoffed and swooped towards the door. “Yesss, not decent. The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”

The remaining four watched him pop outside to call a taxi, slamming the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson muttered something about her boys running all about making a ruckus and retreated into her own flat.

“Um,” John said. “Well, bye. Try not to burn the building down while we’re gone, okay?” He awkwardly patted both teens on the head and then followed Sherlock out.

“...let’s chase them,” Scottie said.

“No. I think this is for the best,” Emily muttered. “This is their first real outing together, the one where they start forming their bromance and whatnot. We shouldn’t interfere with that. Besides, they’re just going to check out the body of the pink lady...”

“And meet Mycroft,” Scottie said, his annoyance rising. “And go dumpster diving for her case. Man, I really wanna chase them now...”

“They’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Emily protested.

“But what will we do until then?”

They both looked at each other. “Internet!”

The two teens curled up on opposite ends of the couch in 221b with their respective laptops and sent each other silly pictures for a while, but then Scottie got distracted by some fanfiction and Emily started doodling in her sketchbook. The next thing they knew, Sherlock was stomping in with a dirty pink suitcase in his arms and setting it in his chair.

“Oh hey, that’s Jennifer Wilson’s case!” Scottie said with a grin. “Can I touch it?”

Sherlock twitched in the middle of unzipping the suitcase’s front pocket, but he quickly regained control and began rifling through the dead woman’s things.

“We really would like to help you, Sherlock,” Emily offered. “I think you’ll find we know a lot more than you’d believe.”

The detective froze and stared at her over his shoulder with wide eyes for one tense moment. Scottie reached across to poke the case but Sherlock swatted his hand away, and then the older man was investigating again with a renewed determination to ignore the both of them. They watched him struggle with the woman’s blouses for a while until Sherlock groaned in frustration, slammed the case to the floor, and began pacing. He paused in front of the couch and reluctantly addressed the two teens.

“Does either one of you have a mobile I can borrow?” he asked.

“No,” Scottie said.

“Yes, but it’s not on me right now.” Emily glanced around the flat. “In fact, I’m not quite sure where it is, exactly. I always seem to magically lose it in the weirdest ways...” She looked up to examine the ceiling, as if expecting it to be floating there.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled. Pause. There was no answer. “MRS. HUDSON!”

“Oooh, okay,” Emily said. “Everyone screech out their anger all at once, alright? One two three, go!”

All three of them took deep breaths and shouted, “MRS. HUUUD-SOOOOON!”

“Just the yawps this time!” Scottie said. “One, two, three--”

“What?” Sherlock asked, glancing between them.

The two teens yelled together as loud as they could, “YAAAAAWP!”

Silence.

Sherlock sighed and crammed himself onto the couch between the two teens, inadvertently shoving his head into Emily’s crotch and his feet into Scottie’s gallbladder.

“Sir, I don’t think I know you well enough for this,” Emily said.

“One of you go fetch me my nicotine patches,” Sherlock mumbled as he closed his eyes and threw an arm over his face. “They’re somewhere on my desk.”

He obviously meant Scottie, but Emily shoved the detective’s head off her lap and let it hit the arm of the couch as she stood. Seconds later, a pack of nicotine patches smacked Sherlock in the chest.

“There you go,” Emily said sweetly.

Sherlock glared at her and proceeded to cover his forearm in way too many patches before tossing the package aside and going limp with a satisfied sigh.

Scottie cleared his throat. “Actually, if I could get up as well, that would be--” Sherlock’s feet nestled comfortably into Scottie’s kidneys. “...or y’know, whatever. That’s okay too.”

After a moment Sherlock fished his cell phone out of his pocket, texted John, and then went back to his quiet thinking. Emily decided she wanted to sit down again, so she and Scottie rearranged the limp Sherlock into a more comfortable position, with his head on Scottie’s stomach and his feet on the armrest so Emily could use his shins as a table for her sketch pad. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind Scottie playing with his hair as long as the boy allowed him to look up long enough to send some texts.

After a few minutes of silence, Emily whispered in a horrible Australian accent, “and now we observe the elusive consulting detective in his natural habitat.”

Scottie choked out a laugh and tried not to move his stomach too much. It didn’t work; Sherlock grunted at him to keep still while he was trying to think. “Aye,” Scottie whispered back in an accent that was just as bad in its accuracy. “Tha’s a rare beast roigh’ theah. One’a th’only known specimens in th’wold.”

“Unfortunately, the consulting detective is an endangered species. Their lack of adaptability has caused their numbers to dwindle in recent years.”

“This’ll be th’very first documented sightin’ of a consulting detective in the wild, so we hafta be extremely careful not ta startle ‘im...”

Sherlock made a face at them without opening his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin.

“Oh, look!” Emily whispered excitedly. “He’s retreating into his Mind Palace to hibernate!”

The detective’s eyes snapped open, but he tried to cover it by flipping open his phone again and staring at its screen. He hesitated before sending John another text.

“Now he’s calling his mate back to their territory so they can gather resources in preparation for the long winter ahead,” Scottie said knowingly. Sherlock glared at him but kept quiet.

“I wonder if they’ll snuggle to keep warm.”

“Yes. To keep warm. Riiiiight.”

This continued for a while, and it only seemed to get more amusing the longer the teens kept at it. Eventually there were footsteps on the stairs, and then John was standing frozen in the doorway, staring. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Narrating Sherlock’s life like it’s a bad nature show,” Emily said.

Scottie smoothed the detective’s hair back from his face. “Crikey, look at ‘im! Ain’t he a beaut?”

“What? No,” John said and pointed at Sherlock. “I meant him.”

The detective’s arm dropped off the edge of the sofa from where he had been rubbing the crease of his elbow. “Nicotine patch,” he mumbled. “Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

John’s inner Nazi doctor fluffed up his feathers indignantly. “Yes, well. Good news for breathing,” he hissed.

“Ugh, breathing. Breathing’s boring,” Sherlock droned.

“Is that three patches?” John demanded.

“Three patch problem,” Scottie, Emily, and Sherlock said in harmony. Another awkward silence followed.

“Right. Whelp, you asked me to come,” John said with a sigh. “I’m assuming it’s important?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and then he gasped. “Oh! Yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “My phone?”

“Yeah. Don’t want to use mine. Always a chance the number will be recognized, it’s on the website.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mrs. Hudson has a phone...”

“Yeah, she’s downstairs,” Sherlock said. “I tried shouting, but she didn’t hear.”

“All three of us at once, it was great!” Scottie said happily.

“Technically, you and I were yawping,” Emily corrected. “Either way, Mrs. Hudson needs her hearing checked...”

“You two couldn’t have helped him out?” John asked through gritted teeth.

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“And mine’s... somewhere. Useless things, phones are.”

“We didn’t want to get up, either,” Scottie said.

“I was on the other side of London!” John shouted.

“It’s okay, no hurry,” Sherlock said soothingly.

“No rush,” Scottie sang in an Irish accent, and Emily elbowed him.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and threw it at Sherlock, who caught it without looking. “There. Is this about the case?”

“Yes, her suitcase, obviously,” Sherlock mumbled. “The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake...”

“Huh? Okay, he took her case. So?”

Sherlock hummed to himself. “No, it’s no use, there’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it. John!” The detective threw the phone back, making John fumble and almost drop it in his panic. “On my desk, there’s a number. I want you to send a text--”

“You brought me here to send a text,” John said flatly.

“Text, yes, the number on the desk.” Sherlock finally cracked his eyes open and turned to look at his flatmate, who kept glancing out the living room window. “What’s wrong, John?”

The doctor’s mouth twisted up and he began rifling through the papers on Sherlock’s desk in search of the phone number he was supposed to find. “I just met a friend of yours,” he said after a while.

“Friend?!” all three on the couch asked in alarm.

“Enemy, rather.”

“Oh!” Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. “Which one?”

“Your archenemy, according to him. Do people even have archenemies?”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asked, staring at the back of his flatmate’s head.

John hesitated. “Yes...”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

Sherlock made a disappointed noise. “Pity. We could’ve split the fee. Think it through next time, John.”

The doctor huffed and turned to look at Sherlock. “And just who is he, anyway?”

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met and not my problem right now. On my desk, John, the number.”

John sighed and began reading off the paper on Sherlock’s desk. “Hold on, Jennifer Wilson? Wasn’t that the dead woman?”

“Yes, that’s not important, just enter the number,” Sherlock snapped. “Are you doing it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you done it?”

“Not yet, hang on!”

“These words exactly,” Sherlock said. “‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must’ve blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.’”

“You blacked out?” John asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“What? No. No!” Sherlock jumped up, nearly kicking Emily in the face. “Title and send it, quickly.” He began rummaging through a pile of things beside his armchair. “Have you sent it?”

“What was it again?” John asked as he slowly typed the message with one finger.

“Oh, for goodness’s sake, give me that thing!” Emily stood, snatched the phone away from John, banged out the correct words in a matter of seconds, pressed send, and then handed the cell phone back to its owner. “There. It’s done.”

“Good!” Sherlock pulled the suitcase up onto the coffee table and crouched in his chair, staring straight ahead intently.

“That’s Jennifer Wilson’s missing case, then?” Emily asked.

“Yes, obviously.”

“Can I go through her crap now?” Scottie whined and stepped forward.

John’s eyes widened and he grabbed Scottie’s elbow, pulling him away from the detective. “Scottie...”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at them. “Oh. Perhaps I should mention that I didn’t kill her.”

“Never said you did,” John mumbled as he took a step back.

“Why not?” Sherlock sneered. “Given the text I’ve just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption.”

John hesitated before letting go of Scottie’s arm. The teen cheerfully bounced over to the case and began poking through it. “Do... Do people normally assume you’re the murderer?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at his shoes. “Now and then, yes.”

John sat in the armchair across from him. “Oookay. And, uh, how did you get this again?”

“By looking,” Sherlock responded.

“Where...?”

Sherlock stood and began pacing. “The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens, he could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously, he felt compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. It wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes away from Lauriston Gardens, and any way you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

John raised an eyebrow at him. “And you got all of that because you realized the case would be pink?”

Sherlock looked at him like he was retarded. “Of course, it had to be pink. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Emily said.

“Obviously,” Scottie repeated.

John shifted in his seat. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he mumbled.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock replied. John looked offended. “Oh, no no no. Don’t take it like that. Practically everyone is!” Sherlock jumped back into his chair and perched there. “Now, look. Do you see what’s missing?”

“From the case?” John asked. “How could I?”

“Her phone,” Sherlock said. “Where’s her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, no phone in the case. We know she had one, that’s her number over there, Emily just texted it...”

John shrugged. “Maybe she left it at home.”

“She has a string of lovers, and she’s careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home,” Sherlock corrected.

John gasped in realization. “Oh, no. Why did you just have Emily send that text?”

“Well, the question is, where is her phone now?” Sherlock asked with a mischievous grin.

“She could’ve lost it,” Scottie suggested after a pause.

“Yesss, or...?”

“The murderer,” John said. “You think the murderer has her phone?”

“Maybe she left it when she left the case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, there’s a good probability that the murderer has her phone.”

“Sorry, what are we doing?” Emily asked. “Did I just text a murderer?”

“Did she just text a murderer on my phone?” John demanded. “What good will that do?”

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her,” Sherlock muttered. “If someone just found the phone, they’d ignore a text like that. But the murderer?” As if on cue, John’s cell phone began ringing. “He’d panic,” Sherlock said with malicious glee.

John placed the phone as far away from him on the coffee table as possible and stared at it until it stopped ringing. “Have you talked to the police?”

“Four people are dead, there’s no time to talk to the police!”

“Then why are you talking to us?” Scottie asked.

Sherlock pouted in the direction of the mantel. “Mrs. Hudson took my skull...”

John frowned. “So we’re basically filling in for your skull?”

“Relax,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “You’re doing fine.” He stood and began putting on his coat and scarf, then looked at John expectantly. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, you could just sit here and watch telly...”

“What, you want us to come with you?” John asked in surprise.

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. A skull just attracts attention, so...” Sherlock shrugged and looked away. John smiled at him, opening his mouth to speak.

“Well, I’m convinced,” Scottie said and jumped up. “Come on, Emily, let’s go!”

“Right behind you!”

Sherlock groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake--”

“Scottie, Emily. What did I say?” John asked, scowling. “Dangerous serial killers. You’re staying home.”

“Aw, but mooooom,” Emily whined.

“We’ll just follow you in a taxi, we already know where you’re going,” Scottie said.

“Okay, look.” Sherlock took a menacing step towards the teens. “I can’t stop you from tagging along on our investigations, but rest assured, if bullets start flying--as they usually do--I will be using you as a human shield.”

“I can live with that,” Scottie said.

“Deal!” Emily stuck out her hand. “Shake on it?”

“No!” John stood and waved his cane at them. “I will not have a couple of kids running off after murderers, especially not ones that I am now unofficially responsible for! You’re not following us, and that’s that.”

“So you will be coming, then?” Sherlock asked with wide, innocent eyes.

“Oh, uh... I, well.” John swallowed. “Yes, I suppose I will.”

Sherlock smiled. John didn’t smile back. “Problem?” Sherlock asked, face carefully blank.

“Eh, yeah... Sergeant Donovan--”

“What about her?” Sherlock snapped.

“She said you get off on this,” John mused. “That you enjoy it.”

Sherlock sniffed. “And I said dangerous, and yet here you are.” He swooped out of the room with a dramatic swish of his coat.

“Dammit,” John muttered, limping after the detective.

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE MISSING!” Emily shouted at their backs.

“Whatevs. This is the part where they go running around London after a cab,” Scottie said. “We’ll catch the next adventure, one that involves less exercise.”

“But they’re going to go meet Angelo,” Emily protested. “This is their date we’re missing. The famous moment where, for the first time in history, a Holmes and a Watson openly discuss their sexualities with each other!”

“Yeah,” Scottie said. “But also, running.”

Emily sighed. “Okay, fine. Internet?”

“Internet!” Scottie crowed.

And then they went back to their respective positions on the sofa. Fifteen minutes into the first Find the Cutest Kitten Picture competition, Emily suddenly sat up and whipped her head around.

“What was that?!”

“What was what?” Scottie asked.

Emily turned to look at him. “You didn’t hear that?”

“Obviously not,” he said.

“I... think it was a knock at the front door.”

Scottie raised an eyebrow. “Who do you suppose it is?”

“Not John and Sherlock. They wouldn’t have knocked, it’s their place.”

“Maybe it’s the pizza man.”

“This is serious, Scottie.”

They somberly exited the windows with kittens, put their laptops away, and ventured downstairs. Whomever it was at the door knocked again, and Mrs. Hudson started banging around in her flat.

“Now who could that be, knocking down my door...”

“We’ll get it, Mrs. Hudson!” Emily yelled.

“Oh, God,” Scottie said and clung to Emily’s shirt sleeve. “What if we messed up the timeline and now Moriarty’s come to kidnap and torture us?”

“Calm down, don’t think like that!” Emily petted his shoulder soothingly. “Mycroft is a far more likely option.”

Scottie groaned and hid his face behind his hands; he stayed close to Emily’s back as she prepared to turn the doorknob. “We’re gonna die,” he whispered.

“Shh,” she said and cracked the door open. The only thing they could see was a dark jacket and silver hair.

“Well, doesn’t look like he’s home,” the man was saying. “Anderson, go fetch the spare key out of my car, will you?”

Emily opened the door a couple feet farther to reveal an entire drug squad on their doorstep. “Um, hello?”

Lestrade turned around and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, hey. You’re those kids Sherlock had with him. You’re still here?”

“Er... yeah,” Emily said. “We live in the flat under him now.”

“Oh, great,” Donovan whispered not-so-quietly. “The freak’s got a couple of minors on a leash. Wonder what experiments he’s been doing on them.”

“He’ll probably be dragging the brats to crime scenes with him,” Anderson whined.

“Think we could get him for neglect and reckless endangerment? Eeh?”

Lestrade could see Scottie fluffing up his fur and readying himself for a catfight. The DI stepped forward and attempted to block the two officers from the children’s sights. “Nevermind that,” Lestrade said sweetly with a smile. “Where’s Mr. Holmes now, loves?”

“Oh, um,” Emily began. “He’s not--”

“Just upstairs,” Scottie said. “Chilling out in his Mind Palace. ‘Fraid he didn’t hear you knocking, sorry about that.”

“Oh, no worries.” Lestrade flapped a hand at them. “Could you go fetch him, please? I’d like a word with him.”

“S-Sorry, Inspector. No can do,” Emily said. “He... threatened to experiment on our laptops with acid if we bothered him.”

“Yeah. You know how he can get sometimes,” Scottie said with a sigh.

Lestrade grinned too wide with teeth that were too white. “Mhmm. You kids’ll make fine liars yet.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his badge to waggle it in their faces. “I respectfully suggest you let us in.”

Scottie turned to Emily, scandalized. “Can he do that?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Apparently.”

Turns out he could. Scottie and Emily didn’t make it easy for them, though.

“You probably shouldn’t touch that,” Scottie said as he followed Donovan around the kitchen. “Sherlock really doesn’t like it when his things are--”

“Oooooh,” Emily cooed as Anderson bent over an open drawer. “Sherlock is going to murder you when he finds out you moved his--”

“Are you sure you want to pick that up? Looks like something’s growing on it.”

“I have no idea what that machine is, but I heard John and Sherlock talking about it before, using words like ‘fatal’ and ‘agonizing’...”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Sherlock was telling us about his boobytraps earlier today...”

“Guys, I’m pretty sure there’s a live rattlesnake in there. But no, you’re right, you have to check everywhere. I understand. Go ahead, open it.”

Eventually, Lestrade yelled at them to go sit outside on the landing until the drug squad was done.

“This is bullshit,” Emily said.

“You’re bullshit.”

“Shut up, Scottie. ‘Hindering an investigation’ my ass.”

“Speaking of asses, let’s talk about Detective Inspector Lestrade--”

“No. I don’t want to talk about his ass. I want to punch him in the face.”

“He’d probably arrest you.”

“I know. Ugh... I have no idea why this is bothering me so much. I didn’t even blink at the drugs bust in the episode! It’s just... half of Scotland Yard is in there rifling through Sherlock’s underwear drawer, y’know?”

“Seems more personal, now that we’re living with them,” Scottie agreed. “They could probably start going through our stuff too, if they wanted.”

“I’d rather not think about that.”

The two teens fell silent. After a while, Scottie began, “I spy with my little eye, something...”

Emily humored him. She shouldn’t have.

Ten minutes later she was saying, “That is not teal.”

“It so is.”

“That is cyan, Scottie. Idiot.”

“No, cyan is bluer and brighter than--”

The front door banged open and Sherlock and John stumbled in, panting heavily between hysterical giggles. They collapsed against the nearest wall and clutched their stomachs.

“...most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John was wheezing.

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock blurted, and another wave of giggles attacked them.

“That wasn’t just me, y’know!”

Sherlock snorted at him.

Scottie waved from the top of the stairs. “Um, guys--”

“Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?” John gasped, struggling to regulate his breathing.

“Oh, they can keep an eye out over there. It was a long shot anyway.”

“Guys,” Scottie said, louder.

“Then what were we doing there in the first place, Sherlock?”

“Oh, just passing the time,” Sherlock said. He turned and grinned at John. “Also proving a point.”

Emily trotted down the stairs to stand in front of the detective. “Sherlock, there’s--”

“What point?” John mumbled.

“You,” Sherlock replied, leaning back against the wall with a dreamy sigh. “Mrs. Hudson?” he called. “Dr. Watson will be taking the room upstairs after all!”

Emily turned to the other man instead. “John, listen. In your flat, there’s--”

“Says who?” John interrupted.

“Says the man at the door,” Sherlock told him with a mysterious smile. Just then there was a knock from out front, and John looked amazed.

Emily, far more used to Sherlock’s antics, crossed her arms and cocked her hip to the side. Well. Guess she wasn’t going to get a word in edgewise until they were done having their moment.

John sent Sherlock a curious glance and answered the front door at the same time Scottie came down the stairs to join Emily. “Okay look,” the boy said. “I know you two just got back from your it’s-fine-if-you-like-blokes-because-we’ll-always-be-besties chat at Angelo’s, but listen. After you guys left, at the door there were these--”

Sherlock shushed him.

“Did... Did you just shush me?” Scottie asked indignantly. “Did you see that? He just shushed me!”

“Sherlock texted me,” Angelo told John, holding out the man’s cane. “He said you’d left this.”

“Oh,” John breathed. He took the cane and stared at it in his hand for a while. “Yes. Yes, thank you. Thank you!” John practically slammed the door in Angelo’s face and whirled to stare at his flatmate with bright eyes. “Oh, Sherlock, I--”

“SHERLOCK,” Emily shouted in the man’s ear. “I AM SORRY TO RUIN YOUR ROMANTIC MOMENT WITH DR. WATSON BUT THERE ARE POLICEMEN UPSTAIRS MESSING WITH YOUR EXPERIMENTS.”

Sherlock and John jumped and looked at Emily as if they hadn’t seen her there before.

“What,” John said.

“Upstairs,” Emily replied, motioning for them to hurry. “You might wanna, y’know, go see for yourself.”

Suddenly, Sherlock paled and dashed up the staircase. “Not my experiments!” John was close behind him, with Scottie and Emily following at a safe distance.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” Scottie said. “We tried to keep them out, but Lestrade is sexy when he starts his Detective Inspector act, and I am weak--”

Sherlock skidded to a halt in the doorway. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

Lestrade, flopped over Sherlock’s chair with the pink suitcase open beside him, stared back at the detective with a raised eyebrow. “Well, I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid.”

Sherlock drifted into the middle of the living room, tugging at his own hair as he saw the damage the drug squad was doing. “But... But you can’t just break into my flat!”

“And you can’t withhold evidence,” Lestrade replied testily. “Besides, I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Oh, really? Well, what do you call this then?” Sherlock asked, flailing one arm out to indicate the other officers milling about in his kitchen.

Lestrade beamed at him. “It’s a drugs bust!”

John barked out a laugh, leaned his cane against the wall, and came to stand beside Sherlock. “Are you serious? This guy? Have you even met him?”

Sherlock winced. “John...”

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn’t find anything you’d call ‘recreational’!”

“John,” Sherlock hissed. “You’d probably want to shut up now.”

“Yeah but, come on...” John turned to face Sherlock, and his smile dropped. “...No.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What?”

“You?” John asked, eyes wide.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock snapped and looked away. “I’m not your sniffer dog, Lestrade!”

“No,” Lestrade agreed. “Anderson is my sniffer dog.”

“What?!” Sherlock whirled to face the kitchen. Anderson, having heard his name being called, leaned through the doorway and wiggled his fingers playfully. “Anderson! What are you doing here on a drugs bust?!”

“Oh, I volunteered,” Anderson said and ducked back into the kitchen.

“They all did,” Lestrade mused. “They’re not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they’re very keen!”

Donovan stumbled past with a plastic container, holding it between two fingers and as far away from her body as possible. “Are these human eyes?!”

“Put those back,” Sherlock ground out between his teeth.

“But they were in the microwave!”

“It’s an experiment!”

“Keep looking, guys!” Lestrade shouted. He returned to smiling pleasantly at Sherlock. “Or you could start helping us properly, and I’ll stand them down...?”

Sherlock clenched his fists. “This is childish!”

“Yeah, well, I’m dealing with a child.” Lestrade stood and approached the other man, reaching out as if to put a worried hand on his shoulder. “Sherlock... this is our case, and I am letting you in, but you do not go running off on your own like that! Are we clear?”

“Or what?” Sherlock sneered. “You set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

Lestrade’s hand dropped back to his side. “It stops being pretend if they find anything.”

Sherlock puffed out his chest. “I am clean,” he said loudly, glancing at John out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, but is your flat?” Lestrade asked with a skeptical eyebrow raise. “All of it?”

Sherlock ripped his shirt sleeve open with a huff and shoved it up to expose his forearm--and a nicotine patch. “I don’t even smoke,” he said.

“Neither do I.” Lestrade did the same with his own arm. “See? We’re in this together...” Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to stomp off into his bedroom. “We found Rachel,” Lestrade called after him.

Sherlock paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Really? Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

Sherlock made a distressed noise, spun back around, and began pacing. “A daughter. But why? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?”

Anderson walked into the living room, snapping his rubber gloves off. “Nevermind that! We found the case. And according to someone, the murderer has the case. And we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath!”

Sherlock made a display of rolling his eyes. He said, along with Emily and Scottie, “I’m not a psychopath, Anderson, I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.”

Sherlock continued pacing, Emily and Scottie innocently sat on the couch, and every Yarder within hearing distance stopped and stared.

“Yeah, they just do that sometimes,” John said.

Sherlock stopped and faced Lestrade. “You need to bring Rachel in,” he said. “You need to question her--no, I need to question her--”

“She’s dead,” Lestrade said flatly.

Sherlock gasped. “Oh, excellent! How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be!”

“Er, well. I doubt it, seeing as she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never really alive.” Sherlock stared at Lestrade uncomprehendingly. “Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter fourteen years ago,” Lestrade explained.

“Oh,” Sherlock mumbled. “Oh, that’s not right. Why would she do that? Why?”

“‘Why would she think of her dead daughter in her last moments?’” Anderson chimed in. “Oh yeah, sociopath, I’m really seeing it now.”

Sherlock looked like he was trying very hard not to smack Anderson over the head with something. “She didn’t think about her daughter,” he ground out. “She scratched her name into the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It would’ve taken effort. It would’ve hurt.”

John cleared his throat and raised a hand. “You said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he, I don’t know... ‘talks to them.’ Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow?”

“No, that was ages ago! Why would she still be upset?” The room fell quiet. Sherlock noticed everyone looking at him and glanced toward John. “What? Not good?”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. “A bit not good, yeah,” he sighed.

Sherlock danced anxiously from foot to foot for a moment before he lunged at John. “Look, if you were dying--if you had been murdered... In your very last few seconds, what would you say?”

John stiffened and averted his eyes. “‘Please, God, let me live.’”

Sherlock scoffed. “Oh, use your imagination!”

John’s jaw clenched, and he glared at Sherlock. “I don’t have to.”

Sherlock’s face screwed up in a strange mix between annoyance, concern, and pain. “Yes, but if you were clever. I mean, really clever. Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers? She was clever. She was trying to tell us something!”

Mrs. Hudson toddled into the living room. “Is the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t order a taxi, go away!” Sherlock said and began pacing again.

“Oh, goodness. They’re making such a mess in here! What are they looking for?” Mrs. Hudson wondered aloud as she glanced into the kitchen.

John came and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s... It’s a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, dear! But I just hurt my hip, you know, they’re herbal soothers, not--”

“Shut up! Everybody shut up!” Sherlock’s hands hovered over his face, twitching, as if he didn’t know whether to cover his ears or claw out his own eyes first. “Nobody move! Don’t speak, don’t even breathe! I am trying to think! Anderson, face the other way, you’re putting me off.”

Anderson gaped. “What? My face is?”

Lestrade sighed and waved his hands. “Alright, everybody quiet and still, please. Anderson, turn your back.”

“What? For God’s sake--”

“Anderson. Your back. Now, please.”

Sherlock was muttering to himself. “Come on, come on... Think, quick...”

“But what about your taxi?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

Sherlock practically growled at her. “MRS. HUDSON--!” The landlady jumped and hurried downstairs, but Sherlock was back in his mind already. “Oh! Oh... Oh, yes, she was clever! She was clever, very clever, yes... She’s cleverer than you lot, and she’s dead! Do you see? Don’t you get it?” A grin spread slowly across Sherlock’s face. “She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost her phone! She planted it on him! When she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer!”

“But how?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock froze, confused. “What? What do you mean how? Rachel! Don’t you see? Rachel!” Sherlock glanced around the room and realized no one else was following him. He huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel isn’t a name!”

“Then what is it?” John snapped, beginning to get annoyed with Sherlock’s insults.

The detective opened his laptop on the desk and started typing furiously. “John, on the luggage, there’s a label. An email address.”

John sighed, feeling around the edge of the suitcase until he found the correct keychain with an identifying sticker on it. “Jenny.pink@mephone.org.uk.”

“Oh, I’ve been too slow,” Sherlock muttered. “She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did all her business on her phone, so it’s a smart phone, it’s email enabled. So there’s a website for her account. The username is her address, and--all together now!--the password is...”

“Rachel,” John said, realization dawning.

Anderson crossed his arms. “Okay. So we can read her email now. So what?”

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the entire street,” Sherlock called over his shoulder. “We can do a lot more than read her emails. It’s a smart phone, it’s got GPS. Which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly towards the man who killed her!”

“But what if he got rid of it?” Lestrade asked.

“We know he didn’t,” John said.

Sherlock’s leg bounced up and down as he impatiently waited for the online program to track the phone’s location. “Come on. Come on. Quickly!”

Mrs. Hudson ventured back into the living room. “Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver is--”

Sherlock grunted at her. “Mrs. Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother?” He jumped up and approached Lestrade. “Get vehicles, get helicopters... We’ve got to move fast. That phone battery won’t last forever.”

“But we’ll just have a map reference,” Lestrade began.

“Well, it’s a start!”

John slipped into the desk chair and looked at the map on the laptop screen. “Um, Sherlock--”

“Now it’s not just anyone in London anymore,” Sherlock said excitedly. “This is the first proper lead we’ve had!”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?” Sherlock crouched behind John, looking over his shoulder. “Yes, where is it?”

“It’s... here.” John pointed at the map. “See? 221 Baker Street.”

Sherlock straightened in shock. “Wh-No! How could it be here?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back, and it fell out somewhere.”

“What, and I didn’t notice it?” Sherlock snapped. “Me? I didn’t notice?”

“Anyway,” John said. “We texted him, and he called back.”

Lestrade turned toward the drug squad. “Okay, guys, we’re also looking for a mobile here somewhere...”

John glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was frozen in place, staring out into the dark landing with wide eyes. “Sherlock? Are you okay?”

“Huh?” Sherlock tilted his head in John’s direction but didn’t move his gaze. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

John raised an eyebrow at him. “So... how can the phone be here, then?”

“Dunno.”

John sighed and turned back to the laptop. “I’ll try the GPS again.”

“Yeah. Good idea.” Sherlock drifted dazedly toward the door, grabbing his coat and scarf on the way past.

“Where are you going?” John asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.”

John bit his lip. “Sherlock? Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered, and then he slipped out the front door.

“That,” Scottie said, “was the most intense five minutes of my entire life.”

Emily let out a breath she had been holding. “I think my heart stopped for a while there.”

The two teens casually bumped their fists together, John let out a nervous laugh, and the drug squad went back to searching. After a few moments, Emily and Scottie went to the front window and pulled the curtains aside.

“Hey, John!” Scottie called. “He just got in a cab!”

“What?”

“Sherlock just rode off in a taxi,” Emily said.

“What?” John joined them and watched the cab drive away from Baker Street. “Seriously? Right when we’re in the middle of...? Ugh, that man.”

“I told you, he does that,” Donovan said with a sympathetic frown. Then she raised her voice unnecessarily loud for speaking to Lestrade, who was right beside her. “See? He’s left again. We’re wasting our time here!”

The other Yarders began to grumble in agreement. John pulled out his phone, dialed, and held it up to his ear. “I’m calling her phone, it’s ringing right now.”

Lestrade paused to listen. “Well, if it’s ringing, it isn’t here.”

John sighed and hung up. “I’ll try that search again--”

“Does it matter?” Donovan snapped. “He’s just a lunatic! He let you down, and he’ll always let you down. You’re wasting our time--all our time!”

John’s jaw and fists clenched as the Yarders started grumbling louder. Scottie elbowed him in the side.

“Y’know,” he said. “Technically, not punching someone in the face because she’s a woman is pretty sexist.”

John gave him an appreciative smile and focused on relaxing all his muscles, one by one.

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade conceded. “Everybody pack up then, I guess we’re done here.” The DI watched his team put things back the way they had found them and file out until it was just him, John, and the two kids. “Why did he do that?” Lestrade asked with slumped shoulders. “Why did he have to leave like that?”

John shrugged and gave him a weak smile. “You know him better than I do.”

Lestrade looked John over with narrowed eyes. “I’ve known him for five years, and no, I don’t.”

John’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “Wh-Then why do you put up with him?”

“Because I’m desperate, that’s why,” Lestrade sighed. “Because, well... Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think that maybe, one day--if we’re very, very lucky--he might even be a good one.” Lestrade shrugged, seemingly embarrassed, and saw himself out with a wave goodbye.

“Later, Inspector Sexy,” Scottie called after him.

John collapsed in his armchair and buried his face in his hands. Spotting Emily and Scottie still staring at him through his fingers, he looked up with a groan. “What?” he said. “You, uh... You two hungry or something? Should’ve brought back take out with us while we were gone.” They kept staring. “What? I’m not Sherlock, I can’t read your minds. If you want anything, you’ll have to use words.”

“I hope Sherlock’s okay, wherever he is,” Emily said loudly.

“Yeah,” Scottie agreed, just as loud. “Hope he isn’t trying to chase down a serial murderer all on his own or anything.”

They continued staring.

“Sherlock is a grown man,” John said, sitting up in his chair. “He’s been taking care of himself for years before I came along...”

“And what if today is the day he needs protecting?” Scottie asked.

John stared back at them for a moment, silent. “Are you two--I mean. You guys aren’t...?” He raised his eyebrows and motioned uselessly with his hands.

“I strongly suggest you check the GPS on that phone again,” Emily said.

John hesitated before hefting himself out of the armchair and into the desk chair again. “Just for the record,” he huffed. “Today has been the weirdest day of my life.”

“Yes, it is,” Scottie said. “But it’s about to get weirder. Where does it say the phone is now?”

John squinted at the screen. “Um, I dunno. It looks like it’s inside a building a little while away from here... But that doesn’t make sense, it was just--”

“Wait, inside the building?” Emily did a wonderful impression of Scottie flailing. “Oh, crap. They’re already at the college!”

“John’s running behind,” Scottie said, face blank. “Guess we really did fuck up the timeline.”

Emily grabbed one of John’s arms and unsuccessfully tried to heave him out of the chair while Scottie attempted to shove his other arm through the sleeve of the man’s jacket.

“John, don’t ask why or how we know this,” Emily said. “But you need to go find that phone right now. Sherlock is in deep trouble!”

John easily shook the two kids off of his arms. “What the devil are you two going on about? Honestly, Sherlock just got in a cab five minutes ago and--Oh!”

“Yes, oh,” Scottie said. “Now that we’re all caught up, can you start saving the day please?”

John didn’t argue with them anymore. He shrugged his other arm into his jacket, grabbed the laptop and his cellphone, and jogged down the stairs.

“Hey!” Emily shouted. John turned around, and both teens were right behind him, staring back innocently. “We’re coming with you.”

“What? No, I...” Scottie’s lower lip trembled. John sighed. “...God. Ugh, okay. Okay, let’s go.”

Scottie was so excited he couldn’t stop doing his happy dance the whole way out the door. Emily grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him a few feet away.

“Should we really go with him?” she whispered. “Haven’t we meddled enough already?”

Scottie scoffed. “Well, we tried keeping our noses out of everything, and look where that got us.”

All three of them piled into the first empty taxi John jumped in front of. Scottie was squished in the middle with the laptop, Emily was charged with telling the cabbie where to go, and John was busy yelling into his cell phone.

“No! Detective Inspector Lestrade, I need to speak with him! It’s important! It’s an emergency!”

“Left here, please,” Emily said. “Then a right on the next street.”

They arrived at the college in record time, thanks to Scottie hinting that a hefty tip would be in order if the cabbie ignored all traffic laws. John was throwing the door open before the taxi even began to slow down, but he paused with one leg hanging out of the cab.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit shit shit. Er, sorry. Don’t use that word, it’s bad.”

“John, we’re sixteen. We don’t say shit. We say cuntbag and asswipe and picklefucker and chickenfaggot--”

“Scottie.”

“Nevermind,” John said. “There are two buildings. Which one am I supposed to go in?”

Scottie looked closely at the map. “Er, it doesn’t say. I think he left the phone in the cab... and it’s parked between them.”

“Well, aren’t you supposed to know?” John snapped. “Psychic demon children, or whatever you are?”

Emily pointed at the building on the left. “That one. Just go, we’ll take care of the taxi and the laptop and stuff. You go save Sherlock.”

“Thank you,” John breathed, and then he was out and running. “Don’t get into trouble!”

As soon as John was out of sight inside the building, Emily smacked Scottie’s arm. “Come on, let’s go get into trouble.”

“I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

They paid the cabbie well and took the laptop with them into the other building. While they didn’t know the layout of the college or exactly which room Sherlock would be in, they saved a lot of time by skipping the first floor entirely and running past any double doors that didn’t have circular windows.

Somewhere in the middle of the third story, Scottie stumbled to a halt. “Do you hear that?”

“...this is wot... really addicted... anyfin’ at all...” Emily followed the faint noises to a room on their right and carefully cracked the door open. “...to stop bein’ bored. You’re not bored now, are you?” Jeff Hope was saying. “Innit good?”

“Oh, man,” Emily whispered. “Oh man oh man oh man oh man, hurry up, John...”

“What?” Scottie crowded in beside her, catching a glimpse of the scene inside through the crack in the door. He flailed when the pill, held in Sherlock’s shaking hand, touched the detective’s lips. “John isn’t going to make it,” Scottie hissed. “We have to do something!”

“But what? What can we do?”

Scottie sat cross-legged by the door, balanced Sherlock’s laptop on his knees, opened it, and began clicking and typing.

“Um, Scottie--?”

There was a brief instrumental of cheerful music including a xylophone, and then the lyrics to Bullet by Hollywood Undead began blasting from the laptop’s speakers at top volume.

“MY LEGS ARE DANGLING OFF THE EDGE! THE BOTTOM OF THE BOTTLE IS MY ONLY FRIEND! I THINK I’LL SLIT MY WRISTS AGAIN--AND I’M GONE, GONE, GONE, GONE...!”

Emily glared at him. “Scottie, no.”

“What? I thought it was fitting...”

“MY LEGS ARE DANGLING OFF THE EDGE! A STOMACH FULL OF PILLS DIDN’T WORK AGAIN! I PUT A BULLET IN MY HEAD--AND I’M GONE, GONE, GONE, GONE...!”

Sherlock jumped and fumbled with the pill, nearly dropping it. Unfortunately, he didn’t. “What was that?” he asked, eyes wide and turned toward the door.

Jeff cursed. “Er... probably just the cleaners messin’ around, yanno. Never ya mind it.” The cabbie took a step closer, reaching out as if to take the pill back and shove it down Sherlock’s throat. “Now... where were we, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock looked less sure. He opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off. At the same time Jeff lunged at him, a bullet tore through two windows and the man’s shoulder.

“Oh, shit!” Scottie jumped and slapped his hand at the laptop, attempting to cut the music off.

“...SO IF I SURVIVE, THEN I’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW! YEAH, I’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW! OH, MY LEGS ARE DANGLING OFF TH--”

Their ears rang in the silence that followed.

“...We should probably get the fuck out of here.”

“Agreed.”

The two teens didn’t stick around. They ran all the way back down to the first floor and then set up camp in the front lobby of the next building over, waiting. After a few minutes, John came jogging by and shooed them out into a dark back alley just as a police car turned onto the street. They crouched together in the darkness for what seemed like an achingly long time.

“I’m having Amnesia: The Dark Descent flashbacks,” Scottie whispered.

Emily put a hand on John’s arm, making him twitch. “Are you okay?”

“What? Me? Yeah. Never better.” John peeked around the dumpster they were hiding behind. “Okay. Okay, let’s go look inconspicuous. Ready?”

The trio waited until the sidewalk was flooded with policemen and EMTs before they casually strolled around the yellow caution tape and came to stand as close to Sherlock’s ambulance as was legal. Then they proceeded to pass around John’s phone and take turns snapping pictures of Sherlock wrapped in an orange shock blanket, pouting.

“Oh, bless him,” Scottie said. “Isn’t he adorable?”

John laughed. “He looks about twelve years old sometimes, y’know? He’s so... lanky. Pale. And excitable.”

“And he’s... what? In his thirties?” Emily asked. “Oh, yes. Adorable is a word that applies.”

“Look at those cheekbones. No seriously, look at them.”

“He has such pretty eyes. They never seem to be the same color!”

“What with all these flashing multi-colored lights around and such a perfect subject, God help me, these pictures are starting to look artistic.”

John hummed. “He is kind of dishy, isn’t he?”

Emily and Scottie pretended not to hear, but they secretly high fived when John started staring off into space.

“...I’m in shock,” Sherlock shouted. “Look, I’ve got a blanket!”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade shouted back, crossing his arms and trying to look stern.

“And I’ve just caught you a serial killer!” Sherlock glanced at the other ambulance, where he knew a dead body was lying. “Er, well. More or less.”

Lestrade pulled Sherlock close by his lapels and muttered something to him, wagging his finger like an irritated parent. Sherlock nodded, Lestrade released him with a pat on his shoulder, and Sherlock made a beeline for John without looking back.

“Er,” John said. “Just overheard Donovan explaining everything. Two pills? Dreadful business, isn’t it? Just dreadful...”

Sherlock’s lips twitched upwards. “Nice shot.”

John sent him a bemused smile. “Ha. Yes, must have been... Through that window, was it?”

“You would know,” Sherlock retorted. John’s mouth tightened, he cleared his throat and looked away, and Sherlock touched the back of the soldier’s hand. “You really need to get those powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but... let’s avoid the court case.” Sherlock’s hand dropped. “John?” he asked lowly. “Are you alright? You are alright, aren’t you?”

John glanced up at him. “Yes, of course I’m alright.”

“We’re fine too, thanks for asking,” Scottie said.

“Are you sure, John?” Sherlock said. “You have just killed a man...”

“Yes, I’m--Well. That is true, isn’t it?” John let out a breath and stood a little taller. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

“No,” Sherlock mused. “No, he wasn’t really, was he?”

“And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie,” John mumbled.

“That’s true, he was a bad cabbie,” Sherlock laughed. “You should’ve seen the route he took to get us here...”

John seemed to explode with giggles. He clapped a hand over his mouth and turned to bury his face in the crook of his arm, trying to stop himself. Sherlock didn’t bother holding back his mirth, and Scottie and Emily quickly decided that the joke was a lot less funny in real life.

“Stop,” John chuckled breathlessly, slapping at Sherlock’s arm. “We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it!”

“You’re the one who shot him, don’t blame me,” Sherlock said with a grin.

“Shhh!” John giggled once more before putting a hand over Sherlock’s mouth. “Would you keep your voice down? Sheesh.” John caught Donovan staring at them like they were idiots. “Er, sorry, sorry,” he said as he started to drag Sherlock away by the elbow. “Just, uh, it’s just nerves, I think.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock repeated with a smirk.

They only continued giggling once they were at a safe distance.

“The phrase ‘overgrown manchild’ springs to mind,” Emily observed calmly, jogging along behind them with Scottie.

“You were going to take that damn pill, weren’t you?” John asked with a tight smile.

“Wh-No! Of course I wasn’t!” Sherlock sniffed and adjusted his scarf. “I was... biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

“No, you didn’t,” Emily said and was ignored.

“That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it?” John asked. He rounded on Sherlock at the end of the street and put a hand on his chest to stop him. Scottie almost smashed his face into the detective’s shoulder blade. “You go about risking your life to... prove you’re clever!”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows innocently. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” John said, scowling.

Sherlock just barely suppressed a smile. “Dinner?”

John grinned. “Starving.”

“Down on Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese restaurant that stays open until two,” Sherlock offered. “You can always tell a good Chinese place by the bottom third of the door handle...”

“Are we allowed to come too?” Scottie asked petulantly.

Sherlock glanced back at him and sighed. “Oh, yes, fine. I suppose so.” His lip twitched. “After what the two of you did today, I have--”

“Sherlock!” John gasped and ducked his head. “That’s him, that’s the man I was talking to you about!”

Everyone followed John’s gaze to the nondescript black car parked on the other side of the street, a tall man in a suit with an umbrella climbing out of it. Sherlock’s face twisted strangely.

“I know exactly who that is,” he growled and started stalking straight toward the man.

Scottie made a strangled squealing noise, threw his arms around Emily, and forcibly dragged her along behind Sherlock. “I don’t know if I should be excited or terrified,” she said.

The man stepped forward to meet the detective. “So,” he purred. “Another case cracked. How very... public-spirited. Though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded.

The man hummed and inspected the tip of his umbrella. “As ever, I’m... concerned. About you.”

Sherlock glared. “Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern.’”

“Always so aggressive,” the man tutted. “Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

Sherlock put on an exaggerated thinking-very-hard face. “Hmm. Oddly enough, no.”

“Oh goodness, he’s both scarier and more attractive in person,” Scottie mumbled against Emily’s shoulder. “I feel faint. Catch me, Emily.”

“You’re a weirdo,” she said. “Don’t drool on my shirt.”

The man looked Sherlock over disapprovingly. “We have more in common than you would like to believe, Sherlock. This petty feud between us is childish. People will suffer.” He sniffed and examined his fingernails. “And you know how it always used to upset Mummy.”

“Upset her? Me?” Sherlock snapped, readying himself for a fight. “It wasn’t me who upset her, Mycroft!”

“No, wait,” John said and held up a hand. “Mummy? Who is ‘Mummy’?”

“Mother,” Sherlock corrected with narrowed eyes. “Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?”

“Losing it, in fact,” Mycroft said with a tense smile.

“What? He’s your brother?” John asked, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock glanced at him. “Well, of course he’s my brother.”

“His extremely handsome brother,” Scottie said, sidling out from behind Emily. “Hello there.”

John grabbed the teen and pulled him back with a scowl. “So... wait. You mean he’s not--?”

“Not what?” Sherlock asked, brow furrowed.

“Um, I dunno. A criminal mastermind?”

“Close enough,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft scoffed. “Oh, for goodness’s sake! I occupy a minor position in the British government.”

“He is the British government,” Sherlock said with an eyeroll. “When he’s not too busy being the British secret service, or the CIA on a freelance basis... Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, will you? You know what it does for traffic.” Sherlock pulled his coat around himself, turned with a dramatic twirl, and marched off in the direction of Baker Street.

“You’re hot,” Scottie said, and Emily threw her arms around his face.

“Scottie!” she gasped. “You do not talk to the British government like that!”

“So... when you say you’re concerned about him,” John said slowly. “You actually are concerned?”

Mycroft gave him a puzzled look. “Yes, of course.”

“It actually is just a childish feud?”

Mycroft sighed. “He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

John watched with a smile as Sherlock sauntered away. “Ha. Yeah... wait. No. God no.” John turned back to Mycroft with a shake of his head. “I better, um...” He motioned after the detective awkwardly, and then he spotted Anthea leaning against the trunk of the car. “Oh. Hello again.”

The woman barely looked up from her phone to give him a bemused smile. “Hello.”

John paused, waiting for her to recognize him. “Er, yes. We met earlier this evening?”

She squinted at him and then gasped. “Ohhh!”

John winced. “Yes, yes, okay. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said with a smile.

John nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets, and slumped off after Sherlock. Emily and Scottie jogged to catch up with their new flatmates. “Well, we made it through the first episode,” Emily said. “We’re not dead yet. We haven’t killed off any main characters.”

“Barely,” Scottie muttered. “We haven’t destroyed the space-time continuum, so I guess that’s something. I wonder if we’ll disappear back to our old lives when this episode ends?”

“What about when the series ends?” Emily asked, and they glanced at each other.

“...yes, I can always predict the fortune cookies,” Sherlock said with an amused smile.

“No you can’t!” John laughed.

“Well, almost can,” Sherlock admitted. “You did get shot, though?”

“Erm, sorry?”

“In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound?”

“Oh, yeah!” John nodded. “In my shoulder.”

“Hmm, shoulder. Thought so,” Sherlock mused.

John gave him a look. “No, you didn’t.”

“Left one?”

John pouted. “Lucky guess.”

Sherlock smirked. “I never guess.”

“Yes, you do.” John glanced at him and smiled. “What are you so happy about?”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock sighed with a grin.

John squinted at him. “What’s a Moriarty?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Sherlock said, and turned the corner onto Baker Street.

The tension between Scottie and Emily rose steadily as the group made its way closer and closer to the Chinese place. Finally, just as Sherlock pushed open the door of the restaurant, Scottie exploded.

“Oh my GOD,” he yelled. “WE STILL EXIST IN THIS DIMENSION I AM SO HAPPY.” Everyone stopped to stare at him. “Sorry. I just really really really don’t want to go poof.”

There was a brief awkward silence, and then Sherlock said, “It might be a bit too late for that.”

John stared at him. “Was that a joke?”

“No,” Sherlock said, blinking back owlishly. He held the door open and half-bowed in a very gentlemanly fashion. John shook his head, amused, and walked inside. Scottie and Emily followed with Sherlock looming over them. “So,” he drawled. “Moriarty. I know you know what that means.”

“Yep,” Emily said.

“And you aren’t going to tell me.”

“Nope.”

Sherlock huffed. “Nothing at all?”

“Well... there is one thing,” Scottie said. “The devil wears Westwood.”

“And occasionally very gay underwear,” Emily added.

Sherlock hummed. “Really? Fascinating. What will the two of you be ordering?”

And then Scottie tried Chinese food for the first time in his life.

\---

“Sir, should we go now?” Anthea asked, motioning toward the car.

“Interesting, that soldier fellow,” Mycroft mused. “He could be the making of my brother... or he could make him worse than ever. And as for those two children...”

“Sorry,” Anthea said, glancing up from her phone distractedly. “What children, sir?”

“I am unsure who they are,” Mycroft admitted sourly. “And it is disturbing me. Did you notice? They both seemed to... recognize me, especially the boy. ‘Scottie,’ was it?”

Anthea hummed and continued typing.

“Either way, we better upgrade their surveillance status,” Mycroft sighed. “Grade three, active.”

Anthea looked at him, confused. “Sorry sir, whose status?”

“Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson... and the two teenagers living with them. Scottie and Emily, surnames and relations unknown. Possibly unstable.”

Mycroft turned and got into the car, slamming the door behind him.


	2. The Blind Derpface

Nearly two months passed and, for better or for worse, little had changed for our heroes (or the lack thereof, as they’d done very little of any worth since the events of A Study in Pink). Unlike Scottie and Emily, apparently John needed to take some time easing into living with Sherlock before fully jumping into the swing of things. Things around the flat moved slowly now that there wasn’t a case going on. John was currently looking for work and Sherlock didn’t seem to have any trouble occupying himself with various experiments. During the downtime the teenagers decided to start looking at their stay from more of a tourist’s viewpoint, checking out many of London’s most famous landmarks and attractions firsthand. A single client came in asking for help with a missing diamond, but Sherlock turned down the case, deeming it ‘too boring’ to bother looking into. Scottie and Emily had then tried to solve the mystery themselves but ended up getting nowhere. Except perhaps very, very lost somewhere in the heart of the city.

To everyone’s surprise Sherlock ended up finding his interest peaked in the children’s willingness to help out. Even though they never did get any closer to finding that diamond and he didn’t care enough to step in, afterwards Sherlock started sending them both on little missions and/or errands of his own. Once when they were being particularly annoying Sherlock got Scottie and Emily into trouble by having Lestrade catch them in possession of alcohol, while another time he charged the wannabe super sleuths with the task of decoding a mysterious message that had been left on his blog.

The morning following the notorious James Bond marathon started like any other for the young Americans. Emily woke up considerably earlier than Scottie, but in his defense, she had only made it through a grand total of two films before passing out. After getting dressed, brushing her hair and teeth, and then fooling around with makeup for a bit only to end up wiping it all off anyway, the girl finally got bored of waiting for Scottie to wake up and leapt up onto his bed, shaking the entire thing. He groaned and squinted up at her.

“Morning sunshine,” Emily beamed back.

Scottie scowled. “The fuck are you so excited about?”

Emily shrugged and retreated back to her own twin bed. Scottie rolled over with a grunt. “Hey Scottie?” Emily asked after a pause. He didn’t answer, so she tried again: “Scottie? ...Scottie. Scottie. Skawdee. Scooter. Scurdur. Mr. Lewis. Lewis and Clark. Scottlate Moois. Beam me up, Scotty. Scotch tape. Scotland. F. Scott Fitzgerald--”

The boy finally sat upright and whipped his head around. “Jesus Christ woman, what?”

“I was just… I was just, y’know, thinking and. Well, we’ve been here for quite a while, haven’t we?”

“Yeah. I suppose. But we’re not even in the second episode yet, so...”

“Okay, but aren’t you at least a little curious about how long this is going to last?” asked Emily. “I mean. Sure, things are going great, but like, are we talking wonderful fanfiction vacation that could abruptly end at any minute or trapped in an alternate universe forever?”

“You say ‘trapped’ like it’s a bad thing.” Having given up on getting back to sleep, Scottie climbed out of his bed with a yawn. His hair was sticking out every which-way, but he didn’t seem very bothered by it just yet.

“Well. Not bad, necessarily. But don’t you think it’s a little scary? Not knowing why we’re here or if we can even get back?” Scottie ignored her, and Emily raised an eyebrow. “Come on now. Don’t tell me you honestly aren’t homesick or anything.”

“Um. No, not really?”

“Not even for your parents?”

“Nope.”

“Your friends?”

“I like the ones I made here better.”

“Pets?”

Scottie stopped and stared at her with wide eyes. His face twisted unattractively, he made a high-pitched whining noise, and his lower lip began to tremble.

“Ha!” Emily said, pointing. “See? You secretly want to go home just as much as I do!”

Scottie looked away, his vision blurred by unshed tears. “My babies,” he whispered.

Emily shifted nervously. “Okay, stop that. Crying people make me uncomfortable.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Scottie said with a quiet sniffle. “How far off track do you think it would throw the original plotline if we brought in a Gladstone?”

“Scottie. I’m being serious.”

“So am I!”

Emily was getting annoyed now. She gave Scottie The Look, which usually signified he had said something that struck close to home and she wasn't having it. “Now see here,” she started slowly, “I’m sorry if I can’t say the same for you, but I have people who love and care about me waiting back home, and as… absolutely phenomenal as all this has been, the thought of never seeing them again is actually kind of terrifying. Not to mention there’s our future to worry about - my future. What about college? I was going to go to art school, you know. But. Well, I hardly see how that can happen if I stayed here.”

Scottie rolled his eyes so hard they might as well have fallen out of their sockets. “Goddamn, Emily, if you’re this miserable why don’t you just leave?”

A look of anger flashed across the girl’s face. “Leave?” she echoed. “Yeah. Perfect. Let me just hop on a plane back to California with all the money and the passport I don’t have. And go where? Home? That’s assuming I still have a home to go back to, or anything else, for that matter!”

"Why don't you bitch about it some more? I'm sure that'll help."

Suddenly Emily jumped off of the bed and came up to Scottie, grabbing the boy by his shirt collar and pulling him close. "Hey. Hey. Why don't you shut the fuck up?"

But Emily's slight difference in height and quick temper in no way intimidated Scottie, and he made a point of showing so by lifting a hand between the two of them and then using it to flick the end of her nose playfully. Emily, of course, saw this as an acceptable excuse to sock him in the face. She immediately regretted having done so - not because he didn't deserve it, but because no one had ever taught her to throw a proper punch and this resulted in her hurting her fist a lot more than she anticipated.

There wasn't nearly enough force put into the attack to cause any real damage, but still Scottie stumbled backwards. He wiped the back of his hand across his face unhappily. 

"Alright then. If that's how it's gonna be, I accept your declaration of war."

\---

Meanwhile, John struggled with several grocery bags up the stairs into 221B. He'd already gone to the store once and had to come back because of technical difficulties and was already in a more or less bad mood.

"Don't worry about me," the doctor said as he entered the flat, loudly and sarcastically. "I can manage."

Inside John noticed Sherlock hunched over the desk in the living room, hands folded over his mouth and a laptop in front of him. John dumped the groceries in the kitchen.

"Is that my computer?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"It's password protected."

"Of course," muttered the detective, starting to type.

"What?!"

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John looked as if it were taking all of his self control to keep from blowing up at the other man. "It's password protected!" he said again.

Sherlock kept on typing, unconcerned. "In a matter of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours." He now glanced up at John for the first time since he'd returned. "Not exactly Fort--"

But the original line was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, who now came hurrying into the flat frantic and winded. "Oh, Sherlock! Come quickly!" she beckoned from the doorway. "The children are going at it!"

Sherlock and John exchanged glances. "I thought you said the boy was gay?" John hissed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Still figuring things out? I hear experimentation is very popular in the teenage years."

"Oh, Sherlock, please come!" Mrs. Hudson went on.

The was a loud thud from downstairs and a laugh that quickly turned into a scream. Without any hesitation Sherlock and John leapt to their feet and hurried down the flight of stairs with Mrs. Hudson leading the way. The door to 221C was still flung wide open as the landlady had left it, and the three of them ran through the vacant mess of a living room to the much better taken care of bedroom which clearly contained all of the commotion.

"Ouch!" Scottie's voice rang out. "Why the fuck would you hit someone there, much less with a throw pillow!"

"Because fuck you, that's why!"

Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson came in to find Emily towering over Scottie with a pillow. Lying on the floor looking up, he threw up his arms defensively as she smacked him over the head with it multiple times in succession. Finally the boy saw an opportunity and kicked Emily in the stomach, knocking her backwards. Scottie snatched the pillow away and readied himself to take a swing at her. Emily was just starting to get up when she felt a pair of arms wrap around and restrain her.

"Hey!" Emily shouted, squirming about in John's tight grasp. "No fair!"

"Yeah, that's right!" Scottie said victoriously. "You hold her down for me!" He lifted the pillow and made to take a step forward but was pulled back by the collar of his shirt. He looked up to see Sherlock towering over him, unamused. Scottie dropped the pillow. "Is... Is that not what we're doing?" he asked sheepishly.

Once they were finally able to diffuse the situation, all five of them went back to 221B, where Emily and Scottie were seated at opposite ends of the sofa and avoiding eye contact. Mrs. Hudson loomed over them, arms folded. "Now what do you two have to say for yourselves?" she asked sternly.

"Well I'm not sorry, if that's what you're getting at," Scottie grumbled.

"Typical Scottie," Emily glared. "Never willing to be the bigger person."

"Pretending like everything is okay between us isn't a solution!"

"Well I'm certainly not willing to compromise!"

"Emily! Scottie! Enough!" barked John, suddenly adapting his Soldier Voice. "Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I all have better things to do than sit around sorting out whatever childhood quarrel is going on here. We're not suggesting that you aren't allowed to get into disagreements, but is it really worth driving the entire building up the wall with them?"

"Yes," came the guilty party's decisive answer. John groaned and buried his head in his hands.

"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock suddenly announced. The man got up and passed the others to get his coat.

"Wh--really? Now?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"I'm not getting payed enough to babysit," retorted the consulting detective.

John frowned. "You're not getting payed at all."

"Precisely."

“Hold up, I’m coming with,” John said.

“Are you planning on leaving me in charge of the two of them?” asked Mrs. Hudson in disbelief. “You know they won’t listen to me!”

Scottie jumped up and hurried to John’s side, suddenly realizing that this could be the start of the second episode. “Hey, I wanna come too!” the boy pleased.

John raised an eyebrow. “And what about Emily?”

“Like hell I’m going to stay here if he gets to go.”

John looked helplessly to Sherlock, who merely shrugged and continued out the door. He turned back to Emily and Scottie. “Alright, but only if you guys promise not to get into any more trouble, you hear?”

“Deal!”

\---

A little later Sherlock lead John and the kids through the revolving doors into Shad Sanderson Bank. There was very little eye contact on the taxi ride there, much less conversation. John had long since given up on trying to understand what the ordeal was even over, but just in case it escalated again he stopped Scottie and Emily just as they entered the large bank.

“You made a promise, remember?” he warned.

The teens nodded and rolled their eyes and the like. Although not certain of their intentions still, he passed off this response as “good” and caught up to Sherlock again as the other man was stepping onto an escalator. “Yes, when you said we were going to the bank…”

“You better not embarrass me out in public,” Emily whispered snidely to the boy standing next to her.

Scottie practically choked. “I better not embarrass you?” The girl didn’t answer, so when she started forward again he reached out and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking at it. She let out a yelp.

Just as this happened John whipped his head around from halfway up the escalator. He narrowed his eyes at the kids and they instinctively hugged onto each other with cheesey innocent grins. When the man looked away again Scottie and Emily let go and squeezed past one another onto the escalator.

Sherlock gave his name at the reception desk and he and John were shortly escorted in the direction of Sebastian Wilkes’ office. The remaining two, however, were shown to a lounge area and instructed to wait behind.

Scottie seated himself with crossed arms and stared hard at the wall ahead, apparently determined to ignore Emily. “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she announced without bothering to take a seat herself. Scottie continued to not acknowledge her presence as she disappeared down a hallway and then returned within the next ten minutes.

“Real mature,” she hissed, noticing that she was still being ignored.

“Hey, did you hear something?” Scottie shot back rather loudly but still not looking. “‘Cause I could’ve sworn it sounded like a whiny little bitch.”

Emily pulled back the back of Scottie’s chair so that it tipped backwards he hit his back against the floor with a thud and a shriek. The entire line of receptionists lifted their heads at the noise.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Scottie struggled to pick himself up again.

“You’re my problem!” Emily shot back.

“Hey!” a deep voice bellowed from behind them. Both teenagers looked up to see a dark-skinned security guard bigger than the both of them put together approaching. “Keep it down over there or I’m going to have to ask you kids to leave.”

“He started it,” Emily shouted with an accusatory finger at Scottie.

“She invaded my personal bubble!” the boy shot back.

The security guard frowned. “I mean it. Where are your parents, anyway?”

“Probably making sweet love on Mr. Wilkes’ desk,” shrugged Scottie.

“Or talking about what a fucking disgrace this one is,” Emily added with a nod to Scottie.

This time it was Scottie's turn to come at Emily. He kicked the girl in her shin and she immediately retaliated by pinching his forearm.

"That's it," the security guard growled and grabbed the both of them by their shirts.

After being thrown outside of Shad Sanderson, Scottie and Emily waited on the pavement with their backs against the bank's wall until Sherlock and John returned.

"Traders come to work at all hours," Sherlock was saying. "Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. The message was intended for someone who came in at midnight." He held up a slip of paper for John to see. "Not many Van Coons in the phonebook."

The men stopped a foot or so away from Scottie and Emily. "Well there you are," John commented. "You weren't that bored, were you?"

"Sure, let's go with that," Emily muttered unhappily. She stood up and held out an arm. "Taxi!"

\---

The cab dropped them off out side of Van Coon's apartment complex. Sherlock pressed the buzzer, stared up at a security camera for a moment, and then pressed it. There was no answer.

"So what do we do now?" John asked. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

Sherlock scanned his eyes across the series of buzzers and then tilted his head to look at the building's side. He turned back to John with a triumphant grin. "Just moved in."

"What?"

"The floor above. New label." The detective tapped at one of the resident names labelled Wintle. Unlike the others it was merely a slip of paper and had been hand-written.

“Could have just replaced it,” John offered.

Sherlock pressed the Wintle buzzer and looked towards John again. “No one ever does that.” Moments later a woman’s voice came over the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Hi!” Sherlock smiled at the camera, slipping into a character that was obviously not his usual self. “Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don’t think we’ve met?”

“No, well, uh… I’ve just moved in.”

“Actually, I’ve just locked my keys in my flat.” Sherlock then made a sort of guilty face and bit at his lower lip. Scottie let out a squeal at this and Emily jabbed him hard in his side with an elbow.

“D’you want me to buzz you in?”

“Yeah. And can I use your balcony?”

“...what?”

“Your balcony. Is that alright?”

“I… um… Yeah, I s’pose so. Come on up.”

There was a rather irritating buzzing noise as the front door unlocked and the group let themselves inside. From there Sherlock instructed John and the kids to wait for him outside of Van Coon’s flat so that he could let them in. They did so, and Sherlock continued up another flight of stairs to Ms. Wintle’s flat.

Just outside the door to the flat, John was standing with his hands clasped together in front of him and occasionally tapped his foot with impatience. Neither Scottie nor Emily spoke to one another. Finally they heard something from the inside and John leaned forward, calling out, “Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?” John waited for a moment and glanced over at Scottie, who merely shrugged. “Yeah, any time you feel like letting me in,” John tried again through the door. “Sherlock!” John shouted as soon as it got quiet again. He began pacing up and down the hallway as he waited. Emily leaned her back up against a wall and sunk down alongside it until she was sitting. After another minute or so the front door swung open and Sherlock found that Scottie was the only one still waiting in front of it.

“Took you long enough,” muttered Scottie. He pushed past Sherlock and into Van Coon’s flat as if he owned the place. “So, did you phone the police already or should we do that?”

Sherlock blinked. “I… What? Sorry, how did you know about...?”

“That Van Coon is already dead? Lucky guess.”

“I let them know,” Sherlock answered after a moment of thought. “The Yard should be on their way and arriving shortly.”

“Then we wait,” Scottie sighed and threw himself down in a random seat just as the others were coming in.

It wasn’t long before the team arrived. Without any introductions the forensics team immediately got to work, dusting near every surface in the flat for prints and a photographer got to work on his photoshoot of the dead man lying on his bed. Even though Scottie and Emily weren’t talking to each other enough to coordinate any shenanigans, they seemed to making themselves just as much of a nuisance as if they had been; Emily by striking poses in the background of as many crime scene photographs as possible and Scottie by rubbing his hands over objects just before the forensic officers had a chance to do anything with them. Sherlock hardly seemed to notice this behavior and left the room for a minute or so, returning with his coat off and now wearing a pair of latex gloves.

John did, however, and grabbed one and then the other by the crook of their arms and yanked them as far out of the way of the other men as possible. “The hell’s the matter with you two?” he hissed. “First the bickering like a couple of toddlers and now this?”

Scottie jerked his arm free from the doctor’s grasp. “Oh my god, piss off, okay? We’re just trying to have a bit of fun.”

“Fun?! All you’re doing is making it even harder for skilled professionals to do an already difficult job! That should not be fun!”

“...it’s a little fun,” Emily said quietly, looking away.

“Been away three days, judging by the laundry,” Sherlock was saying. The others looked over to see him crouched in front of an open suitcase. With a satisfied sigh the man straightened himself again and turned to John. “Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it.”

“Thanks. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Problem?”

“Aside from these two shits? Yeah. I’m not desperate to root around some bloke’s dirty underwear.”

Sherlock strode to the foot of the bed now. “Those symbols at the bank - the graffiti,” he went on. “Why were they put there?”

“What, some sort of code?”

“Obviously.”

Now Sherlock was closer to the bed’s headboard and fooling around with the deceased Van Coon’s inside jacket pockets. “Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use email?”

John shrugged. “Well, maybe he wasn’t answering.”

“Oh, good. You follow.”

“No?”

Sherlock threw John a judgemental look before going back to what he’d been doing and began to inspect Van Coon’s hands. “What about this morning? Those letters you were looking at?” he asked casually.

John frowned. “Bills.”

John, Scottie, and Emily looked on with slight disgust as Sherlock reached into the corpse’s mouth and pulled something out of it. Coming closer they could see that it was a black origami flower.

“Yes. He was being threatened,” Sherlock concluded. He carefully slipped it into a plastic bag.

“Not by the gas board.”

“Bag this up, will you? And see if you can get prints off this glass,” a third man came into the room. Scottie and Emily immediately recognized him from the show but for once didn’t give it away.

“Ah, Sergeant. We haven’t met.” Sherlock offered out a hand to Dimmock, who rather rudely placed his hands on his own hips himself.

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Dimmock growled. “And I’d prefer it if you didn’t tamper with any of the evidence. And whose kids are these? Don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate to be bringing children onto a crime scene?”

“Well, technically we didn’t know it was a crime scene when we first got here,” Emily huffed. “And what do you mean, ‘kids’? You yourself barely look old enough to even be in the police, let alone have advanced to the rank of Detective Inspector.”

Sherlock lowered his hand. “Detective Inspector?” he echoed. “I’ve phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?”

“He’s busy. I’m in charge. And that’s right; it is Detective Inspector, not Sergeant. Dimmock.” The man started back into the other room, saying “We’re obviously looking at a suicide.”

Following him out, Sherlock handed off his evidence bag to one of the forensic officers and began taking his gloves off.

“That does seem the only explanation of all the facts,” John agreed.

“Wrong. It’s one possible explanation of some of the facts. You’ve got a solution that you like, but you’re choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn’t comply with it.”

Dimmock squinted. “Like?”

“The wound was on the right side of his head.”

“And?”

“Van Coon was left-handed.” To illustrate his point, Sherlock attempted to mime shooting himself of the right side of his head with his left hand. “Requires quite a bit of contortion.”

“Left-handed?”

“Oh, I’m amazed you didn’t notice. All you have to do is look around this flat. Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. D’you want me to go on?”

“No, I think you’ve covered it,” John said softly.

“Oh, I might as well. I’m almost at the bottom of the list. There’s a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left.”

“John is left-handed and I’ve seen him shoot with his right,” Scottie pointed out. “I know that doesn’t exactly help your argument, but. Just saying.”

John frowned. “Wait. When did you ever see me fire a gun…?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Even if that were true, people generally don’t fire guns with their non-dominant hand. I’m a lefty too and I can tell you right now that if I were about to commit suicide like that, there’s no way I’d randomly pick up the weapon with my right hand to do it.”

“How d’you know?” Scottie shot back. “You’ve never even held a firearm before.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“It sure has hell diminishes your credibility.”

“Why, you--”

“Enough!” Dimmock shouted. “Mr. Holmes, I demand that you keep these two on a much tighter leash, or I’ll have no choice but to remove them from the premises.”

Everyone got quiet for a moment and Sherlock pursed his lips before continuing on with his previous train of thought. “Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts.”

“But the gun. Why--”

“He was waiting for the killer. He’d been threatened.” Sherlock walked away to retrieve his scarf and coat.

“What?”

“Today at the bank,” John informed the Detective Inspector. “Sort of a warning.”

“He fired a shot when his attacker came in.”

“And the bullet?”

“Went through an open window.”

Inspector Dimmock remained as skeptical as ever. “Oh, come on!” he exclaimed in disbelief. “What are the chances of that?!”

“Wait until you get the ballistics report,” Sherlock insisted. “The bullet in his brain wasn’t fired from his gun. I guarantee it.”

“But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?”

“Good! You’re finally asking the right questions.”

Looking rather pleased with himself, the drama queen of a man shoved on his gloves and fluttered out of the room. John pointed apologetically towards him for Dimmock. “Alright, come along, kiddos.” The doctor motioned with his head for Scottie and Emily to follow him out of the flat and they did, but made sure to exchange a dirty look with one another just before doing so.

\---

The next leg of their journey wasn’t particularly exciting. Sherlock, John, Scottie and Emily interrupted Sebastian’s business dinner at a nearby establishment. After informing him that Van Coon had been killed, the boys went to discuss things in private in the men’s bathroom and Emily was forced to wait around outside. The following morning John left for a job interview as Sherlock arranged several photographs from the crime scene above the fireplace on the mirror.

Scottie and Emily avoided talking to one another whenever possible, mostly keeping to opposite ends of the room as they scrolled through Tumblr (undoubtedly reblogging each other’s posts the entire time). Sherlock was on his own computer for a bit and then had taken a chair towards the center of the living room and faced it towards the mirror, where he sat quietly with his fingers pressed underneath his chin and stared straight forward for some time.

“Could you pass me a pen?” the man finally said.

Scottie popped his head out from underneath the living room table, which he’d covered with a blanket and stuffed with anything plush he could find to make himself a pillow den. The boy then ever so kindly reached over the table and grabbed a ballpoint pen, which he chucked across the room and sort of in Sherlock’s direction. The pen hit the rug a couple feet from Sherlock’s chair and rolled off it, but the detective made no move to pick it up.

Time passed and eventually John returned, strolling through the open door and dropping his jacket off onto his armchair.

“I said ‘could you pass me a pen’,” Sherlock repeated.

“What? When?” John squinted back at the man and then glanced from Scottie to Emily, who each met his eyes and shrugged.

“‘Bout an hour ago.”

“And you didn’t think to… I don’t know, ask one of the kids to help you out with that?”

“Didn’t I?”

John started to take another step forward when he felt something underneath his shoe. He stepped back again and crouched down to pick up a little ballpoint pen. “Could this possibly be the pen that you couldn’t be bothered to retrieve from half a foot away?” Sherlock didn’t answer, and so John stood upright again and tossed the pen to him. The detective caught it with one hand but never took his eyes off of the photographs on the wall. “Probably didn’t even notice I’d gone out, then.”

Beat.

“Yeah, I went to see about a job at the surgery.”

“How was it?” Sherlock asked absently.

“It’s great. She’s great.”

Emily chuckled to herself.

“Who?”

“The job.”

“...she?”

“It.”

Scottie, who was now lying on his back and half sticking out of his fort with a laptop perched on his stomach rubbed at an eye. “For fucks sake,” he muttered. There was another brief pause before Sherlock jerked his head to the right and changed the subject.

“Here, have a look.”

“Hm?” John strode over to the table and looked at the opened web page.

“Don’t bump anything,” Scottie warned.

John skimmed through the article, apparently not hearing the boy. “The intruder who can walk through walls…”

“Happened last night,” explained Sherlock. “Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked windows bolted from the inside - exactly the same as Van Coon.”

John straightened his back and met Sherlock’s eyes. “God. You think…?”

“He’s killed another one,” the detective confirmed grimly.

“Wonderful,” John breathed. “New Scotland Yard, then?”

“About freaking time.” Emily slammed her computer shut and slid it under the couch.

\---

“Seriously? Is this place so secret that we’re never gonna get to see the inside of it in person?” Scottie groaned, pacing back and forth across the police station’s headquarters. “We already know what’s in there. It’s really not a big deal.”

Emily waited a tad more patiently. She was seated against the wall with crossed legs and currently flipping through a comic book. She glanced up at Scottie and frowned. “Look, I’m annoyed too, but you doing… that isn’t helping anything.”

Luckily the delay wasn’t long, and Sherlock and John returned several minutes later with Detective Inspector Dimmock.

“I’m to take you in a police vehicle,” Dimmock said bitterly.

“Are we in trouble?” Emily asked cautiously.

“The hell would they be taking us if we were?” Scottie whispered. “We’re already at the Yard. Dumbass.”

“...so we’re not in trouble then?”

“Probably ought to be, but for now we’re headed to the deceased Brian Lukis’ flat. Sherlock insisted I bring you two along and he and Dr. Watson follow in a cab. Dunno why he’s so dead set on giving children private tours of crime scenes, but… Until you give me a reason not to, I’ll condone it.”

The teenagers then went with Dimmock into a police car parked outside. Upon arrival at their destination, the group joined up with Sherlock and John and entered the building. Inside Sherlock was the first to duck under the police tape sealing off a stairwell. The others followed him upstairs quietly as Sherlock did his thing.

Sherlock pushed back a curtain and smirked. “Four floors up,” he finally said. “That’s why they think they’re safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut. Think they’re impregnable. They don’t reckon for one second that there’s another way in.” The consulting detective pushed back through the others and made a beeline for a shut skylight just above the landing.

“I don’t understand,” Dimmock said slowly.

“You’re dealing with a killer who can climb.” Sherlock stepped up onto something to get a bit off the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“He clings to the walls like an insect.” Sherlock unhooked the latch and pushed the window upwards, allowing some sunlight to stream into the room. “That’s how he got in.”

“What?!” choked Dimmock.

“Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight.”

“You’re not serious! Like Spiderman?”

Emily mimicked holding up a walkie talkie. “Alright, we’re gonna need to put out an APB on a fellow in a red and black spider suit.”

“He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon.”

Dimmock laughed in disbelief. “Oh, ho-hold on!”

“And of course that’s how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace. We have to find out what connects these two men.” Looking somewhat pleased with himself, Sherlock hopped down from his stepping stool. His eyes then fell on a pile of books scattered up the side of the staircase. He came towards one of them, picking it up and taking it with him.

“Are we going with Dimmock again?” asked Scottie.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not unless he wants to tag along and renew any overdue books.”

“Books?” John echoed. “Why are we going to a library?”

Without turning around, Sherlock waved the book he’d collected out to the side to show John. “West Kensington Library, to be exact. Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died.”

\---

At the library, Sherlock checked the reference number stuck to the bottom of the book’s spine and located the shelf where it belonged. The man then shoved the book he had with him into the shelf and began pulling out other books and examining them.

“You can’t just leave this here.” Scottie took the book they’d started with out again. “Then they’re not gonna know it’s checked in and what with Lukis being dead and all, I don’t suppose he’s in any position to be paying off late fees.” The boy then took off back the way they’d come, presumably to return the book.

Sherlock shook his head and continued on with what he’d been doing. Emily circled around to the other side of the aisle and pulled off a sizeable stack of books with both arms, placing them down again on the floor.

“Oh wow what a totally random happenstance,” she said rather suspiciously. “Sherlock, John, come take a look at this.”

John hurried over without even realizing that she’d stolen his thunder and Sherlock came moments later. They stopped in front of yet another set of yellow spray painted symbols. Sherlock hugged onto Emily for a moment as a way of praising her. Undeserving as it was, she beamed victoriously at John, who shook his head with a slight smile.

\---

That afternoon the troop stopped by 221B Baker Street to add the newest photographs from the library to the array on the mirror and then headed out again for the National Gallery.

“The world’s run on codes and ciphers, John,” Sherlock was saying. “From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment.”

“Yes, okay, but--”

“But it’s all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It’s an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won’t unravel it.”

“That’s his way of saying he doesn’t know shit about what the cipher means and needs advice,” Scottie whispered to John.

Sherlock’s smug look faded but he kept going forward. “Eloquently put.”

John smiled in disbelief. “Wh--You need advice?”

“On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert.”

They were coming up to the gallery’s entrance now but took a sharp turn at the last second, circling around the building to approach Raz, resident hooligan, in the middle of his latest graffiti piece.

“Part of a new exhibition,” the young man explained as the group approached, entirely unconcerned by their presence.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said without much conviction.

“I call it… Urban Bloodlust Frenzy.”

“Catchy,” John also said with the same amount of obvious disinterest.

“Y’know, I’ve always wanted to play around with spray paints before,” Emily commented. “Not vandalization of public property, per say, but like, stencils on canvas sort of thing. Or you know - those guys at really touristy locations who you pay to do those landscape things right in front of you in a couple of minutes.”

Raz didn’t pause in his work, but he smiled a little and glanced over his shoulder at the girl. “You an artist too, eh?”

Emily pursed her lips into a smile. “Well. I know how to wield a paintbrush, if that’s what you mean.”

“Hit me up sometime. I’ll give you a lesson.”

John came in between the two of them with a stern look on his face. “Um. No offense, but I don’t think you’re exactly the sort of crowd she ought to be hanging out around.”

Sherlock took out his phone from a coat pocket and held it out towards Raz, who turned around and tossed one of his spray cans at John. John caught the can with a surprised look. Raz took Sherlock’s phone with his now free hand and scrolled through the photographs of the yellow ciphers.

“Know the author?” the detective asked.

“Recognize the paint. It’s like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I’d say zinc.”

“What about the symbols? D’you recognize them?”

Raz squinted even harder at the screen. “Not even sure it’s a proper language.”

“Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them.”

“What, and this is all you’ve got to go on? It’s hardly much, now, is it?”

Sherlock, John, and Raz didn’t even notice the fight that had broken out until it was already in full swing. With little warning, Scottie grabbed a can of lime green spray paint from Raz's duffel bag and sprayed it at Emily, nailing the tips of her hair and the left side of her jacket.

"Hey!" John barked. "Knock that off!"

Emily reached down and grabbed a hot pink can for herself. "Yeah! Knock it off, asshole!" she shouted. The girl then did the exact thing Scottie had done and managed to color a thick pink stripe across the front of his shirt.

John pinched at the bridge of his nose while Scottie and Emily chased each other with the spray paint in a circle around him. Next thing they knew Raz and Sherlock had completely disappeared, only to be replaced by a couple of cops. The kids, by this point dripping in wet paint, let out simultaneous yelps and shoved the spray cans into John's unsuspecting hands before taking off down the sidewalk. 

They didn't stop running all the way to Baker Street, which thankfully wasn't all that far. They entered the foyer and immediately began arguing over who had dibs on the shower first. The troublemakers didn't get far, however, before running into a less than pleased Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh! Goodness!" the woman gasped. "Did a piñata throw up on you both? No, I don't want to hear it! Out, out, out, the both of you! I will not have you wiping off green and pink on all the furniture!" Mrs. Hudson shooed them backwards out the door.

"But, how are we supposed to get clean if we aren't allowed in to showe--" Emily started to say.

She was answered by a hard jet of water from a gardening hose. The girl shrieked at the sudden cold blast. Scottie laughed at her suffering just before receiving the same treatment. Once Mrs. Hudson decided she had done a good enough job of hosing the kids down she gave a satisfactory nod and tucked the torture instrument away again.

"Now don't you dare think of coming in again until you've dried off first. I'll go and fetch a couple of towels." With that the older woman disappeared into 221 Baker Street again, leaving Scottie and Emily dripping wet and shivering but (for the most part) only still covered in paint that had already dried. As promised, Mrs. Hudson returned with towels shortly and then left them alone again.

Emily hugged onto her towel and turned her head away with a pout. "Nice going."

"As if you weren't partially responsible for all that," Scottie rolled his eyes.

"You fired first."

"Only because you provoked me. And then escalated it."

Emily snapped her head around and glared. "A lady doesn't start fights; she only finishes them," the girl quoted.

"Oh? So you're trying to pass off as a lady now?"

Before their dispute could continue on, John pulled up in a taxi and stopped in front of them both. He opened his mouth as if he were going to say something. He didn't, though. Instead he shut it again and flipped Scottie and Emily off on his way back inside.

"What's his problem?" Scottie asked softly and bitterly. Emily merely shrugged.

\---

After a change of clothes and yet another trip to New Scotland Yard and then Shad Sanderson Bank, they now found themselves strolling through Chinatown. Sherlock and John went on with their investigation as they normally would, but now made more of an effort to keep an eye on Scottie and Emily and keep them from starting anything up again. They had gone back to not talking and ignored one another for the most part, save an occasional dirty look as the group rounded a corner.

Noticing the tension, John scurried to the front of the group and cut them off. “You know what? New plan: I’ve got five quid for each of you to spend on whatever you want down here. But you have to promise to get along and not get on anyone else’s nerves, alright?”

Emily folded her arms and cocked a hip out to the side. “Bribery? That’s really what you’re resorting to?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“How does ten pounds sound?” the girl finally said. “That’s more in dollars, right?”

John made a face. “I’m not haggling with you. I only just got a new job. I can’t afford hand out that kind of money whenever I want to make sure you two cooperate.”

“Y’know, Emily may be a royal pain in the ass, but she knows how to get what she wants, I’ll give her that much,” Scottie smirked. “And I don’t know, I think ten pounds each sounds about right. You know how the Chinese like to jack up prices on cheaply made merchandise.”

John looked like he was trying really hard to fight them on this one, but ultimately let out a sigh of defeat as he reached for his wallet.

“Well, now that they’ve sufficiently weaseled twenty quid out of you, shall we get on with it?” Sherlock pressed with a slightly amused expression. He nodded his head towards one of the little touristy shops.

Without saying anything to them or each other first, Emily took off with her money in one direction and Scottie the other. No more than a half hour later they met up again in a restaurant across from The Lucky Cat. Scottie got there before Emily and had pulled up a chair facing the window as Sherlock and John scribbled down notes excitedly. A waiter came over shortly a set down a plate of food in front of John before asking if Scottie wanted anything. The boy shook his head.

“Found you,” Emily said, approaching the table.

John looked up at her and smiled. “And we found out where the symbols come from. Hangzhou numbers. Ancient Chinese.”

“Yeah but I found ramune and pocky and those candies with the edible rice wrapper things so… I win.”

“Perhaps you missed the big news while you were out buying Chinese candies and soda,” Scottie began with a tight smile, “but we’re sort of caught up in the middle of an international smuggling operation gone wrong. Maybe you shouldn’t make light of it.”

“Well good for you for figuring that one out,” the girl answered with just as much sass. “Would you like a gold star or a scratch and sniff sticker?”

“Guys…”

“I’ll take the sticker, please.”

“Remind me, when was the last time that it rained?” Sherlock asked distractedly. Without waiting for a reply he got up and went across the street to Soo Lin’s address, Scottie and John close behind. Emily noticed that the doctor hadn’t taken much more than two bites of his meal, if that, and flagged down the waiter to get it boxed up.

Once she’d gotten that taken care of and went to rejoin the rest of the group, Sherlock had already climbed into Soo Lin’s flat. Emily temporarily lost track of John and Scottie, but found them again as she skirted around to the front side of the building.

“D’you think maybe you could let us in this time?” John called at the shut door. He waited a moment before continuing: “Can you not keep doing this?”

“Well, good to know Scottie isn’t the only one capable of being a colossal shit on repeat occasions.”

“For your sake, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” muttered Scottie.

Sherlock’s voice came from inside, but they couldn’t quite make out what he was saying.

“See? He even agrees with me.”

John shushed Emily and pushed her out of the way, leaning closer to the door. “What?”

Sherlock said something else slightly louder, but it wasn’t any better.

“Any time you want to include me,” John grumbled, starting to pace back and forth.

“Y’know, maybe we should find a place sit down and wait,” Scottie suggested, tugging at John’s arm. “Sherlock probably found something inside and got sidetracked by it. You know how he is.”

“That’s no excuse!” John yanked his arm away. This caused Scottie to tip off-balance for a moment, but he was able to keep himself from falling over. With a frustrated sigh the boy pulled out the last of his spending money and took it to a nearby vendor.

“What the hell was that about?” Emily wondered aloud.

“No, I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone because no one can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!” John yelled into the door’s letterbox. The man let go of the lid and it slammed shut. He turned around and threw his hands out to the side as if he expected Emily to offer an explanation as to his behavior. She of course had one, but kept it to herself.

Moments later the front door swung open. Sherlock was standing in the doorway looking winded. “The, uh, milk’s gone off and the washing’s starting to smell,” he wheezed. “Somebody left here in a hurry.”

“Here,” Scottie said, offering out a water bottle to the detective. The others hadn’t noticed him rejoining the group. “You look like you could use this.”

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” Without wanting to admit that he was very grateful for the gesture, Sherlock took the bottle and cracked it open.

“Somebody?” John echoed.

Sherlock took a big gulp of water, nodding all the while, and swallowed before answering him. “Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her.” The detective cleared his throat and bent down to pick something up off the floor.

“But how, exactly?”

“Maybe we could start with this,” Sherlock suggested, looking at the backside of the envelope he’d collected.

\---

The letter led the ensemble to London’s National Antiquities Museum. Once there Sherlock sought out the guy who’d left the note for Soo Lin, a young museum employee called Andy. While they waited, Scottie and Emily had begun to pace around opposite ends of the front part of the museum. Emily spotted a drinking fountain a little ways down a hallway that branched out and decided to go towards it, but was immediately cut off by a security guard.

“Hey - I need to see your sticker before I let you past.”

“My… My what?” Emily smiled, not quite following.

“Your sticker. Showing you paid the entrance fee.”

“I’m just getting water,” the girl explained.

“No sticker, no water. And you can’t take that in with you.” He pointed at the plastic bag Emily was carrying, which contained John’s leftovers from earlier.

“She’s with us,” Sherlock said, holding up a police badge that she knew was pickpocketed off of Lestrade at some point or another. “Police investigation.”

The other gentleman raised an eyebrow. “Cops are working with kids now?”

“Yes, they’re called interns,” John said, pushing past the security guard and taking Emily by the crook of her arm. He already had Scottie with him. Along with Sherlock they followed Andy down the hallway. Andy stopped in front of a heavy metal door to unlock it and went in first, the rest of the group not far behind. At the bottom of a short flight of stairs he flipped on the lights, revealing another sort of corridor, this time lined with neatly organized museum archives.

“She does this demonstration for tourists; a-a tea ceremony,” Andy told them. “So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here.”

He showed them to one of the stacks on the wall and turned an odd looking handle attached to it, which widened the gap between the archives. John, Scottie, and Emily came closer to look inside, but Sherlock seemed distracted. Instead he fixed his attention on something further down the hall, and walked closer to it. The others looked up to see that it was in fact a marble statue of a nude woman, and had been spray painted across its front in the same yellow Chinese numbers as before.

“Well, well,” Sherlock purred. “Looks like Miss Yao was involved too.”

“Wh-What do you mean?” Andy stammered. “Do you know what those markings are about? Is Soo Lin in trouble?”

Sherlock didn’t give the boy an answer to a single one of his questions, but instead thanked him for his assistance and informed him that that was all they would be needing. The sun had set now, and it was dark when they exited the museum.

“We have to get to Soo Lin Yao.”

“If she’s still alive.” John’s response sounded doubtful.

“Sherlock!”

A familiar face ran over to join the boys plus Emily. It was, of course, the same Raz that they’d run into earlier that afternoon, and he looked excited about something.

John stiffed. “Oh, look who it is.”

“Found something you’ll like,” Raz told Sherlock just before taking off in another direction. Sherlock didn’t have to be told twice and went bounding after the younger man, while John, Scottie and Emily caught up at a more relaxed pace.

\---

“Tuesday morning, all you’ve gotta do is show up and say the bag was yours.”

“Oh, you can just hold onto those,” Raz offered. “Gift for your daughter. I’ve got more.”

“Wh--”

“Forget about your court date,” Sherlock instructed.

The group continues onwards and into a skate park, where a bunch of people who were older than Scottie and Emily but younger than Sherlock and John were showing off board tricks to one another and being rather loud about it.

“If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn’t you say? People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message.”

Raz pointed at a particular spot on the heavily-graffitied walls, indicating the partially painted over markings left by the Chinese smugglers in their distinctive yellow paint.

“They have been here,” Sherlock muttered, looking intrigued. “And that’s the same paint?”

“Yeah.”

“John, if we’re going to decipher this code, we’re gonna need to look for more evidence.”

“You think there might be more around here?” asked John.

“Might be. And we’ll probably find it a lot faster if we split up. Cover more ground.”

“Well if that’s all you need me for,” Raz said with his chest puffed out all proud-like, “I think I’m gonna take my leave. And, say, I’ve got some free time now, so if you want to come kick it at my place, some of my friends and I could show you the ropes of stencil makin’, like you was talking about earlier.”

This comment was obviously directed at Emily, who seemed flattered by the gesture. John, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as charmed by it and shepherded Emily further away from the man. “She’s fine. Thanks.”

“Hey, whatever, man.” Raz threw his hands into the air and turned away. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Emily and I will look together,” John told Sherlock. “I don’t like the idea of her walking around alone at night. Especially with people like… well, that hanging around.”

“Fair enough. Then Scottie and I will cover ground in the opposite direction.”

\---

“So, random question, but… Where did you and Scottie say you were from, again?” John asked nonchalantly. “In the states, I mean.”

“Oh. Well, I used to live in LA. California.”

“So then you didn’t come from the same place?”

Emily shook her head. “He grew up in Tennessee. Some little town no one’s ever heard of.”

John nodded slowly. “Alright. Then… how did you two meet?”

“Online. Look, not that I mind chatting it up with you are anything, but you’re not gonna help me forgive Scottie any faster and aren’t we kind of in the middle of a case here?”

The two of them were going through an underpass, examining the posters and graffiti as they went. They came out to find a set of railway lines. John had a flashlight with him, which he pointed at the ground in front of them. “Hey.” John elbowed Emily and nodded towards the beam of light. It was pointing at several splashes of yellow paint up against the tracks. “I think we’re close,” he said.

“I think we’re more than close. Look.” Emily reached out and took John’s flashlight from him. She then used it to point up at a brick wall ahead of them. It was fully caked with the large yellow symbols.

John took a step back, his mouth open in surprise. Without skipping a beat he whipped his mobile out and began calling Sherlock. Emily waited patiently while Sherlock never picked up. John exhaled and put his phone away again. “Alright, I’m gonna need you to run and get Sherlock. Let him know we found this.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want me walking around by myself out here.”

“...okay I’ll go then. I don’t suppose you have a mobile of your own on you? No? Alright, then take mine, and call me if anything happens. Alright?”

“But... then I’m still out here alone,” Emily protested. “Why can’t I come with you?”

“Then who’s going to keep an eye on the wall?”

“Are you expecting it to get up and walk away? Look, if you’re so worried that something’s going to happen and we’ll lose the message again, let’s just snap a picture of it, alright?” The girl took John’s cell phone and backed up a couple steps to get a picture of the wall with the flash on. She handed it back to him. “See? Can we both go now?”

“Alright. Fine.”

They found Scottie and Sherlock again further down the railroad.

“Answer your phone!” John called out as he approached. “I’ve been calling you! We’ve found it.” Without waiting for a reply the doctor spun around again and ran back the way he came. Sherlock went darting after him, followed by Scottie, who chucked and empty yellow spray can at Emily on his way past.

“Ouch!” Emily winced as it bounced off her shoulder and hit the ground. “Was that necessary?!” She picked it up again and threw it back at Scottie, but he was already too far ahead, even if her aim hadn’t been completely off.

Back at the wall, John made to show Sherlock the Chinese writing. Much to his surprise (but not Scottie and Emily’s), in the few minutes since they’d left it the thing had been entirely painted over in black.

“It’s been painted over!” John said, as if that much weren’t already obvious. Sherlock shined his flashlight at the wall. “I don’t understand. It-It was here… ten minutes ago. I saw it. Emily saw it. A whole load of graffiti!”

“Somebody doesn’t want me to see it,” Sherlock concluded. He did a full 180 and grabbed onto the sides of John’s head with both of his hands.

“Hey, Sherlock, what are you doing…?”

“Shh, John, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes.”

“No, what?” the man stammered. “Why? Why? What are you doing?!”

Sherlock lowered his hands so that they were now clinging to John by his upper arms. “Now kiss,” Scottie whispered. Normally Emily would’ve jumped onboard with this line of teasing well, but she was still very much cross with him and in no mood.

Sherlock and John were spinning now. “I need you to maximize your visual memory,” Sherlock was instructing him. “Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you remember it?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Can you remember the pattern?”

“Yes!”

“How much can you remember it?”

“Well, don’t worry--”

“Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I had him take a photo,” Emily let out, pulling in between them both.

Sherlock dropped his arms. “Oh?”

“She did. See?” John gave his phone to Sherlock, who took it, looking embarrassed.

“Except it’s weird,” Emily said half to herself. “Supposing our guys only painted the wall because they didn’t want Sherlock to see it, they must have known that John and I found it, right? Then… wouldn’t they have noticed us taking the picture anyway?”

“Don’t worry about that. We have the message, so the only thing that matters now is decoding it.”

\---

The first thing Sherlock did upon getting home was have John email the photograph to him. He used this to print out the image once as a whole and then blown up into smaller sections and stuck them to the mirror, too. Once they were all up the detective grabbed a marker and, using a printout chart of the symbols and their numerical values, labeled each portion that was on the wall. When he had finished, Sherlock capped the pen and tossed it aside, stepping back to admire his work. John had pulled up a seat at the dining table with his back to Sherlock and it wasn’t long before he started dozing off again. Meanwhile, Scottie and Emily were occupying the kitchen.

“Ugh, I’m starving!” whined Scottie. He started poking through the fridge and various cupboards, each time shutting them again in disappointment. “I dunno how Sherlock manages to restrain himself on cases like these,” he went on. “I don’t even like eating that much, but like, it’s not something I can exactly ignore all day either. Do you think we’ve reached our takeout budget for the week? I should’ve picked up something more substantial while we were in Chinatown…”

“Oh, so now we’re back on speaking terms?” Emily replied coldly. She set down her plastic bag and took a styrofoam box out from it. “It’s so hard to tell with all your moodswings.”

Scottie threw a look at her from over his shoulder. “I’m doing my best to tolerate your insufferable presence. Gimme a break.” He then saw what she was doing and spun around to face her, now sitting on the counter next to the sink. “Hold up, where’d you get that? Is that what John ordered?”

Emily didn’t answer right away. Instead she took her time to dump the Chinese food onto a glass plate and stick it in the microwave for reheating. “Waste not want not.”

“You’re despicable.”

“I also have dinner. And you don’t.”

Scottie grumbled something pissy under his breath and went back into the living room to rejoin Sherlock and John. He told his predicament to John, who handed him some cash to run down to the store on the same block and pick them each up a thing of ramen noodles. Scottie did so and ate his dinner with John while they watched Sherlock fuss around with the code some more. Once he and Emily had both finished, Sherlock and John still seemed to be showing no signs of slowing down. But it was getting late, so once Emily confirmed to herself that they wouldn’t be running out again, she went downstairs to get ready for bed. Wanting to avoid another fight, Scottie waited around with the two men for another hour or so and then took his leave only after making sure that Emily was already asleep.

The boy didn’t sleep so well that night. When he woke up the following morning Emily was still out, and so he changed quietly and found Sherlock and John upstairs, practically unmoved.

“Of course,” Sherlock let out, as if he’d just had an epiphany. He gave Scottie a triumphant smile as the boy entered the flat. “Of course! He wants information. He’s trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back.” Sherlock stepped closer to the fireplace and ran his fingers along the symbols. “Somewhere here in the code.” The detective paused briefly and then ripped three of the pictures from the wall and took them towards the door. “We can’t crack this without Soo Lin Yao.”

“Oh good,” John murmured, looking somewhere in between awake and asleep at the dining room table. With a yawn the man stood up and trailed Sherlock out of the room, patting Scottie on the shoulder on his way past. “Where’s Emily?”

“Still sleeping.”

“Mm. Lucky her. You coming, then?”

Scottie followed John down the stairs. “Where to?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Whelp. In that case, I think I do.”

“Not so fast!” a girl’s voice called out. Suddenly Emily was out the door to 221C and quickly shoving on a second boot with her hoodie around her neck but not pulled all the way down.

“Dammit,” Scottie grumbled.

The four of them were outside shortly and went back to the museum to meet with Andy once again.

“Two men who travelled back from China were murdered, and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals,” Sherlock told the worried employee.

“Soo Lin Yao’s in danger,” confirmed John. “Now that cipher - it was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well.”

Andy shook head helplessly. “Look, I’ve tried everywhere: um, friends, colleagues. I-I don’t know where she’s gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away.”

Sherlock turned his head away and noticed a set of teapots sitting in a display case.

“What are you looking at?” asked John.

The detective pointed. “Tell me more about those teapots.”

“Th-The pots were her obsession. Um, they need urgent work. If… If they dry out, then the clay starts to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them.”

“Another one of them’s shining since yesterday,” Scottie commented. Sherlock came closer to the display case and bent over to get a better look.

\---

The ensemble spent the entirety of the day within the walls of the National Antiquities Museum. A little less than an hour before the museum closed at five, each hid in a restroom stall until just after sunset, when they were absolutely sure that all guests and museum employees had locked up and cleared out.

Since Emily was the only one in the women’s bathroom, she crept out after receiving a knock from outside. The girl and stopped for a moment in the mirror to fix her hair before she pushed open the door and glanced down the hallway cautiously. She didn’t see any of the boys. Taking a cautious step out, she hesitated before pushing on the men’s restroom door.

“Sherlock?” she called through the crack in a whisper. “John? ...Scottie?”

“Over here, genius,” Scottie’s voice said from a little ways behind her. Emily stepped out a bit to see him waiting for her just around a corner.

Emily let out a breath of relief. The idea of an abandoned museum creeped her out in general, but it being night-time when she was in there was what truly put her on edge, and as much as she still wasn’t on good terms with Scottie, she was grateful to not be alone in there.

“Before you say anything stupid, it was John who made me wait here for you,” the boy muttered.

“Then I’ll be sure to give him my thanks,” Emily huffed. “Where’d they go, anyway?”

“Where the pots are kept, obviously. You coming?” Without waiting Scottie took off across the room and Emily took long strides to stay close to him.

They found Sherlock and John already talking with Soo Lin by the time they’d arrived on the scene. She and John were seated on stools at opposite ends of a table while Sherlock remained standing. Scottie and Emily entered quietly, not wanting to interrupt.

“I had to finish… to finish this work,” Soo Lin was saying. “It’s only a matter of time. I know he will find me.”

“Who is he? Have you met him before?”

The Chinese woman nodded. “When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognize his… signature.”

“The cipher,” Sherlock clarified.

“Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu.”

“Zhi Zhu?” echoed John. He glanced round at Emily, who was just pulling up a stool next to him.

“Oh. Um. Don’t mind me.”

“The Spider,” Sherlock said.

Soo Lin kept her eyes on the newcomers for a moment. Deciding that they could be trusted as well, she lifted one leg atop the other and unlaced her shoe, removing it from her foot to reveal a black tattoo of a lotus flower within a circle. “Do you know this mark?”

“Yes. It’s the mark of a Tong.”

“Hm?”

“Ancient crime syndicate based in China.”

John nodded at this and looked back at Soo Lin for her to continue.

“Every foot soldier bears the mark. Everyone who hauls for them.”

“Hauls?” John’s eyes widened with understanding. “Y-You mean, you were a smuggler?”

Soo Lin lowered her gaze as if embarrassed to admit so. “I was fifteen,” she went on. “My parents were dead. I had no livelihood; no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses.”

“Who are they?” asked Sherlock.

“They are called the Black Lotus. By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds’ worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England.” She smiled a little as she said this. “They gave me a job here. Everything was good. A new life.”

“Then he came looking for you,” Sherlock finished for her.

“Yes.”

Soo Lin swallowed, looking much smaller and tearful now. “I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours - they are never very far away.” She wiped away a tear before continuing. “He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen.”

John leaned forward. “And you’ve no idea what it was?”

“I refused to help.”

“So you knew him well when you were living back in China?”

“Oh yes,” Soo Lin nodded. “He’s my brother. Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan - the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting.”

“She should come back with us,” Scottie said quickly. “And soon.”

“Isn’t it safer for her here?” argued John. “Where no one will think to look for her?”

“Sherlock thought to look for her here.”

“That’s different.”

“I’m just saying, with all of us acting as her bodyguards the entire time maybe something bad won’t… theoretically happen.”

“Can you decipher these?” Sherlock interjected, laying the photographs he’d brought with him on the table.

“These are numbers,” the woman told him, pointing at a marking on one of the pictures.

“Yes, I know.”

Soo Lin pointed at another spot. “Here: the line across that man’s eyes. It’s the Chinese number one.”

Now Sherlock pointed at one of them. “And this one is fifteen. But what’s the code?”

“All the smugglers know it. It’s based upon a book…” But before she could explain further, all the lights that were currently on went out at once. Soo Lin went pale. “He’s here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me.”

“Sh-Sherlock!” John called after his flatmate with a lowered voice. But Sherlock was already charging out of the room. “Sherlock, wait!” John took Emily’s hand in his and came around the table to grab Soo Lin’s with his other hand. “Come here.” He pulled both females with him towards another smaller room, saying, “Get in, get in! I have to go and help. Bolt the door after me.” He left the room and ran out into the museum’s foyer. There was a gunshot sound, but it was muffled from where they were.

“Now hang on just a minute,” Emily protested, coming out after him. “I get the whole Knight in Shining Armor thing, I really do, but don’t you see how that’s just a little offensive?”

“Not to mention sexist,” added Scottie. “Why don’t I get to be escorted to safety?”

“What are you doing?!” John called back to them from across the room, looking distressed. “Get back in there!” Not waiting to see if they were planning on doing as he’d instructed, John continued onwards.

Yet another gunshot was fired, this time much louder as they echoed throughout the foyer, making it difficult to tell exactly which direction it had come from. The children’s hearts both skipped a beat at the sound and they tensed up, eyes wide. Sherlock’s figure came sprinting across the foyer as this was happening and he kept going up a flight of stairs. More shots rang out, and they were even closer now; close enough for the two of them to be in the line of fire. Scottie leapt into Emily's arms and then, almost as an afterthought, let out a high-pitched scream directly in her ear. She struggled to support his weight for mere seconds before toppling over backwards.

"Truce?" he asked, still sitting on top of the girl.

The girl shoved him off of her. "Truce," she said reluctantly.

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god," Scottie was whimpering. "Sherlock and John are probably fine, but WE MIGHT ACTUALLY GET SHOT AND DIE?"

"M-Maybe if we die we'll just sent home if we die here?" offered Emily, already scooting up against the wall. "Like a video game going back to the last save spot?"

Scottie crawled after her quickly. "Yeah, well I don't know about you, but I for one don't want to have to find out!"

Yet another shot fired. Both teenagers yelped and clung to one another in a tight clump at the corner of the room. Several more shots rang out a little ways away. Suddenly Scottie pulled away and met Emily’s eyes with a look of urgency.

“Soo Lin!” he gasped.

“What about her?”

“What do you mean what about her? She’s about to get murdered!”

“Oh. Well. Yeah, but there’s not really anything we can do about that. I mean, it happens anyway.”

"Don't be a jerk. If we hurry we might be able to get her out in time."

Emily stared back in disbelief. "Are you crazy? You can't outrun an armed Chinese smuggler. You'll just get yourself killed!"

"Well. If that happens then you have the privilege of yelling 'I told you so' over my dead body."

"H-Hey! Don't be like that!"

But before she could say anything else to stop him, there was a high pitched scream from a little ways away. Scottie took off running towards it and reached the doorway just in time to hear the gunshot and see Soo Lin's body crumple to the ground. Emily skidded to a halt just behind him and held a hand over mouth, immediately regretting having done so. Zhi Zhu knelt down and placed something in Soo Lin's hand.

"Hey! Asian Spiderman!" Scottie shouted, getting the assassin to whip his head around.

"Scottie!"

"T-Think fast!" The boy snatched a clay pot off of a nearby table and chucked it at Zhi Zhu. Of course, he missed by quite a lot and the artifact shattered upon hitting the ground.

Expression unchanging, Zhi Zhu stood up and pointed his weapon at the Emily, who shrieked and dropped to the ground just as it went off. He came towards Scottie then, who remained frozen in fear. But instead of shooting at him as the boy anticipated, Zhi Zhu instead swung his arm out to the side, smacking Scottie's temple with the butt of his handgun and knocking his glasses off in the process.

"Motherfucker," Scottie yelped just as stumbled sideways, reaching for the wall to stop himself from hitting the floor as well. It wasn't successful.

He apparently hadn't been struck quite hard enough to be knocked out, but the throbbing at the side of his head made him wish he had been. Everything blurred (he wasn't sure whether this was due to the blow to the head or his lack of eyewear) but he thought he heard Emily saying that she was fine and someone else began patting his bleeding wound with a cloth, which if anything made it hurt even worse.

"You're lucky to be alive," his nurse was saying. He recognized John's voice but couldn't quite make the man out.

"My... My glasses..." he groaned.

John helped him put the object back on - much better. And they weren't even cracked or anything.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Scottie frowned. "You already gave me back my glasses, idiot."

"I'm seeing if you have a concussion. Work with me. Now how many fingers?"

"...two."

"When's your birthday?"

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything? Soo Lin's dead! So stop worrying about me!"

"I think the boy will be fine," Sherlock's baritone voice came from the doorway. "Shall we, then?"

"Wh - just like that? Soo Lin's just been murdered, Scottie has a head wound, and you're casually suggesting we move on with our lives as if nothing's wrong? While her killer is still out there?"

"He has no reason for coming back here." Sherlock took several steps into the room and began picking up the papers Soo Lin was in the middle of translating. “And there’s nothing we can do for poor Miss Yao here.”

"Shall I call the Yard, then?" Emily suggested, already reaching for her phone.

"Don’t bother. I’ll go myself.”

“And what about us?”

“I think you’ve had quite enough excitement for one day.”

\---

A taxi dropped John and the kids outside of their building on Baker Street and Sherlock continued on to meet with Inspector Dimmock at New Scotland Yard. Once inside, John removed his coat and asked Emily if she could be so kind as to get a ziplock baggie and fill it with ice for Scottie.

“Uh, how about no,” the girl retorted stubbornly.

“N--What do you mean, no?! What if Scottie has head trauma?”

“Then it would serve him right. That useless piece of shit almost got me killed!”

Scottie narrowed his eyes. “It’s a shame I didn’t, bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah. And I’m disappointed that Zazu or whatever the fuck his name was didn’t hit hard enough to render you unconscious. Maybe then--”

“Hey hey,” John interrupted. “That’s about enough out of you two! You both survived an encounter with an armed and dangerous assassin today and as such, each of you should be grateful to know that the other one is alive and well. Soo Lin wasn’t so lucky and I’m both shocked and appalled by your disrespect.” The teens looked away guiltily but otherwise said nothing. “Emily, I want you to go downstairs and see if Mrs. Hudson needs help with anything,” John continued after a brief pause. “Scottie, you have a seat on the sofa and I’ll get you that ice.”

Emily exhaled rather loudly but restrained herself from complaining as she left the room, slamming its door shut behind her. Scottie then threw himself down upon the couch and John stood for a moment clenching and unclenching his fists before venturing into the kitchen.

“I didn’t mean to get her shot at,” the boy mumbled after a while. “I was just trying to… I thought that maybe if we got there in time, we could…”

John hesitated between handfuls of ice as if pondering a response. “Don’t blame yourself for Soo Lin’s death,” the doctor answered as he resumed was he was doing. “There was nothing you could have done to prevent it, but the fact that you tried at all is what matters. Emily might be pissy and resentful at times, but I think she knows that too. If anything, I was the one who should have stayed with her the entire time.”

He came back into the living room and brought Scottie the icepack he’d made, which he had wrapped in a cloth. Scottie took the cold object and placed it gently against the side of his head.

“Is that alright?” John asked, taking a seat next to him.

Scottie nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. And, um… about Soo Lin… That wasn’t your fault either. So… Don’t be hard on yourself to try and make me feel better.”

“Well. I at least hope that in light of this, Sherlock is able to convince that new guy that the Yard needs to get involved. Say, is there anything on the telly you’d like to watch? You’ll be fine, I’m sure, but it’ll only help to rest up.”

And so John and Scottie relocated Sherlock and John’s armchairs in front of the screen and sat through two and a half episodes of How It’s Made (with Scottie just beginning to doze off) before the front door flung open again. John straightened his back and shut the TV off, which messed up Scottie, who had just been using the man’s upper thigh as a pillow.

“You’re back,” John observed. “How’d it go?”

Sherlock wasted no time into throwing them back into the case. “Not just a criminal organization; it’s a cult. Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders.”

“Soo Lin said the name.”

“Yes, Shan. General Shan.”

“We’re still no closer to finding them,” John pointed out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “We might have been, except that you and Scottie have instead wasted the last hour or more learning how to make… garbage bags, if I’m not mistaken? But never mind. We’ve got almost all we need to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces.”

“Actually I may’ve missed most of that one,” Scottie admitted. “But I can teach you a thing or two about making hot dogs and crayons from scratch. Y’know, if that ever comes up or whatever.”

Sherlock hesitated before continuing his train of thought, as if not quite sure how to respond to Scottie’s comment: “Why did he need to visit his sister? Why did he need her expertise?”

“She worked at the museum,” John realized, standing up.

“Exactly.”

“An expert in antiquities. Mm, of course. I see.”

“Valuable antiquities, John. Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China’s home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao’s revolution.”

“And the Black Lotus is selling them.”

“Scottie, fetch me my computer.”

The boy propped himself up over the edge of the armchair at the mention of his name.

“He’s injured. More or less.”

Sherlock didn’t appear to follow how this had anything to do with his request. “So?” he asked with a blank stare.

John frowned. “So, I don’t think running around fetching you things you could easily get yourself is such a good idea for him right now.”

“Guys. I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Okay, then Emily can. Where is she, anyway?”

“I told her to ask Mrs. Hudson if she needed help with anything. So she’s probably downstairs on Tumblr or watching Netflix.”

“I said I’m fine. And I’ve got the thing,” Scottie said, pushing his way between the two adults to place Sherlock’s laptop down on the dining table. Sherlock thanked him and pulled out a chair in front of it. It was quiet for a little while as the machine started up and then Sherlock opened up a webpage and began typing away. Scottie and John hovered over each of the detective’s shoulders to see what he was doing.

“Auctions?”

“Mm-hm,” Sherlock replied absently. “Check for the dates…” He scrolled down a bit and then pointed at the screen. “Here, John.”

“Mm.”

“Arrived from China four days ago. Anonymous. Vendor doesn’t give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East.”

John nodded slowly. “One in Lukis’ suitcase and one in Van Coon’s.”

“...antiquities sold at auction,” Sherlock said aloud as he typed into a new search bar and hit enter. “Look, here’s another one.”

“Mm,” John repeated.

“Arrived from China a month ago: Chinese ceramic statue, sold four hundred thousand.”

John glanced down at Lukis’ diary, which had been left open on the table, and back at the screen. “Ah, look - a month before that - a Chinese painting, half a million.”

“All of them from an anonymous source,” Sherlock concluded. “They’re stealing them back in China and one by one they’re feeding them into Britain.”

“Huh.” He looked at the diary again and then at a printout of Van Coon’s calendar. “And every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon travelling to China.”

“So what if one of them got greedy when they were in China? What if one of them stole something?”

“Ayyyy, you’re - we’re - finally starting to figure it out!” Scottie grinned.

“Shush.”

The boy’s smile quickly faded. Their conversation was then interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, who knocked on the open door with her infamous “ooh-ooh!” that made all the boys in the room lift their head. “Sorry. Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?”

“What?”

“A young man’s outside with crates of books.”

“Oh. Yes. About that. Mrs. Hudson, would you mind bringing Emily back up? Her assistance is required.”

The landlady tilted her head to the side slightly. “Emily? Is she not with you boys?”

“Doesn’t that just figure,” sighed John.

“And tell the man outside that he’s welcome to bring them up,” Sherlock instructed without looking up from the computer screen.

Mrs. Hudson disappeared downstairs again and a few minutes a pair of police officers entered the flat, carrying in a large plastic crate. Sherlock sort of gestured to one end of the room for them to set it down in before they left to retrieve the next one. This went on for some time, and between the enormous stacks of plastic crates labeled both Lukis and Van Coon, there wasn’t much walking space left by the time Emily came back in.

“So, the numbers are references,” Sherlock was explaining to John.

“To books.”

“To specific pages and specific words on those pages.”

John nodded slowly. “Right. So… Fifteen and one. That means…”

“Page fifteen, first word on that page,” Scottie yawned.

“Okay. So what’s the message.”

Sherlock smirked. “Depends on the book. That’s the cunning of the book code. Has to be one that they both owned.”

John scanned his eyes across the room with a bewildered sort of look. “Okay, right,” he breathed. “Well, this shouldn’t take too long, should it?”

“Oh, fuck no, I did not sign up for this,” Emily groaned and immediately turned to leave.

“Nice try.” John flipped open the lid to one of the top bins and pulled out as many books as he could carry in one hand. With his other he pulled the girl back into the room by her shoulder and handed the stack over to her. She let out soft moan and hunkered down on the couch to look through them. “You too, Scottie.”

Sherlock, Scottie and John each grabbed a set of books for themselves and retreated to their own workspaces. Just as they were doing so Dimmock walked in holding up an evidence bag for Sherlock and then John, respectively.

“We found these at the museum. Is this your writing?”

John took the bag from him and set it down on the table. “Uh, we hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us. Ta.”

The Detective Inspector nodded awkwardly and turned back to Sherlock, who continued to unload his crate.

“Anything else I can do? To assist you, I mean?”

“Some silence right now would be marvellous.”

Dimmock stared back at Sherlock for a moment and then looked across to John, who shook his head apologetically, and then turned to leave the room. Emily slammed the book she was currently looking at down on the coffee table and jumped up to meet him at the doorway.

“Wait! Uh, Dimmock, sir… I actually, um, have a few further insights about the case I wanted to share with you.” She tucked several loose strands of hair behind her ear, smiling as innocently as possible. “Perhaps, seeing as you’re not too busy at the moment, we could discuss it over a cup of coffee, or…?”

The older man squinted back at Emily. “Aren’t you a minor?”

“Why should that matter? Coffee’s still a non-alcoholic beverage in the UK, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” Dimmock made a face. “I assumed you were implying, well…”

“I mean, I’m not opposed to that either,” Emily said softly, taking a step closer.

“EMILY, GET BACK TO CATALOGING THOSE BOOKS AND LEAVE THE POOR MAN ALONE. Dimmock, please shut the door on your way out.”

“I’m married,” the Inspector hissed at Emily just before storming out of the flat and shutting the door on his way out. Emily shot a glare in Sherlock’s direction. She then snatched up her current pile of books from the coffee table with a swooping motion and took them with her into the kitchen, where Scottie had set up shop and was currently drawing a picture of a scythe or something rather than writing down book titles and what the first word of the code would have been if they were the right one. As Emily approached he shoved the paper underneath one of the books and began flipping through it as if trying to look like he was busy working.

“Don’t think I’ve forgiven you or anything, but I’m going to ignore that for a minute to rant about how dumb this is,” she whispered, being sure to get close enough to Scottie so that the others couldn’t hear. “Why should we waste hours and hours doing a chore like this when we know which is the right one? Wouldn’t it be more convenient to, say, go for that book specifically and hand it over? Speed the whole process up?”

Scottie shut his book and slowly shifted his gaze up to Emily to give her The Look. He answered her with the same harsh whisper. “Because, o flatmate dearest, finding the right skip a day ahead of schedule could risk throwing off the entire episode’s timeline. And we both remember what happened in A Study in Pink, when John nearly didn’t get there in time.”

Emily wrinkled her nose but didn’t argue. As much as he’d pissed her off the past few days, she knew he was right about the whole playing along aspect of their being there. “Whatever,” she huffed. “If we’re pulling an all-nighter I’m going to need some caffeine in me.”

Emily then pulled out her favorite of John’s mugs, which displayed the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps, and began filling it with tap water from the sink. Once it was full she stuck the thing in the microwave and pushed the minute button.

“I wouldn’t let Mrs. Hudson see you making tea like that if I were you,” Scottie sang, the volume of his voice now having returned to normal. “Might have a heart attack.”

“I’m American. I do what I want.”

“Okay, just don’t let her see.”

“Piss off.”

\---

They didn’t pull an all-nighter after all, but John and Sherlock had managed to trudge on the entire time (although John admittedly looked as if he were about to keel over himself). Emily had long since curled up in a blanket on the couch and fallen asleep, and Scottie tried to keep going for just a bit longer before he himself passed out with his face on the kitchen table. John was then kind enough to carry him into Sherlock’s room, which of course woke Scottie up, but he pretended to remain asleep during the entire thing as to not spoil the moment.

Now it was morning and daylight streamed into the flat through the half-closed curtains. Books were scattered anywhere and everywhere over the table and about the room. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and looked around at the mess, sighing. John was just beginning to doze off where he sat when an alarm went off on his watch and he blinked several times in succession. He glanced down at the wristwatch unhappily and then out the window. Now it was John’s turn to sigh tiredly and bury his head in his hands.

Several hours after he had left for work, Scottie began to stir again. He awoke in Sherlock’s bed, and his first coherent thought was of how unbelievable this situation would have seemed to him just a few months earlier. But even though the novelty of it all never truly wore off, being here had begun to feel routine. Ordinary. And that was an awareness that sort of surprised him. Still, he had a hard time understanding why Emily would still consider trading all this for her old, boring life, and that sort of betrayal was what had ticked him off.

Trying to forget about being upset about that for the time being, Scottie tilted his head up to view the framed certificate of some sort written in what he assumed was Japanese. Although he never intended to be a snoop, on more than one occasion Scottie had stolen in and poked through as many of Sherlock’s things as he could get his hands on. Most fanfiction authors would probably kill for that kind of exposure into Sherlock’s personal life.

Finally Scottie forced himself up and on his feet. He crossed through the kitchen to find Sherlock still engrossed in the same task as the night before, pulling out book after book and flipping through each and every one, matching up pairs between Lukis’ and Van Coon’s collections whenever he could.

“Jesus Christ, you’re like a robot with infinite batteries or something,” Scottie yawned and rubbed at his eye. “What’s it been, ten hours?”

“Sleep well?” Sherlock asked, not stopping to look up.

“I don’t think for very long.”

On a quest for anything edible, the boy began digging through the pantry until he finally came across a single box of cereal. Looking pleased with himself, he began to fill a bowl for himself. “Actually you should probably take a nap or something too,” he suggested, facing a kitchen chair towards Sherlock before sitting down to eat his breakfast. “You’re not gonna be able to solve this case if you’re too tired to see straight.

“Yes, thank you for your concern, Scottie.”

\---

“You haven’t moved. Literally no one’s moved since I left.”

John looked from Sherlock, who remained in basically the exact same position at the opposite end of the room, to Emily, who had at some point changed her outfit but was now back on the couch with her laptop and drawing tablet out.

“I need to get some air,” Sherlock said abruptly. “We’re going out tonight.”

“Actually, I’ve, er, got a date.” John couldn’t help but smile at sharing this news.

“What?”

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun.”

“That’s what he was suggesting,” Scottie and Emily subconsciously said out loud and over Sherlock’s next line. Emily glanced up and narrowed her eyes at Scottie, who had popped his head out from the kitchen. He glared back and then disappeared around the door frame again.

John blinked. “No it wasn’t… At least I hope not.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Emily mumbled half to herself.

Sherlock looked disappointed in John’s good news. “Where are you taking her?” the detective asked.

“Er, cinema.”

“Oh, dull, boring predictable.” Sherlock pulled something out from his pocket and glided across the room to hand it over to John with a knowing smile. “Why don’t you try this? In London for one night only.”

John took the thing and sort of chuckled to himself. “Thanks, but I don’t come to you for dating advice.” He then made a show of handing the paper back to Sherlock, who took it reluctantly and set it down on top of one of the stacked plastic cases. “I’ll be in the shower if anyone needs me.” And with that the man continued through the kitchen and into the little hallway leading towards the flat’s bathroom. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the man’s back and went to sit down.

“So, are you gonna order tickets for him anyway?” Scottie asked, coming into the room.

Sherlock smirked. “Way ahead of you. Although it does appear as though I’ll be needing one more. Could you pass me that paper again?” Sherlock motioned towards the ad that John had neglected with a flutter of his hand.

“Seriously? You literally just… You know what? Never mind.” Scottie hurried over to fetch it for him regardless.

“Wait, can we come too?” asked Emily, peering up from behind her computer screen. “I’ve never been to a circus before.”

Sherlock held out his cell phone in one hand and the paper with the Box Office number in the other, but he paused to give the girl an odd look. “I never said that it was a circus,” he pointed out.

Emily went pale. “Oh. Um. I… I don’t know why I said that, then. I guess I was just assuming. For some reason. Maybe… Maybe I saw something about one coming into town recently. S-So what is it, exactly?”

“...it is a circus.”

“Oh. Well there you go,” Emily smiled nervously. Leaning against one of the stacks of crates with folded arms, Scottie rolled his eyes at her. “Is that a yes then? Can we go?”

“Something tells me John wouldn’t appreciate a couple of children showing up in the middle of his… date.”

Emily raised a judgemental eyebrow. “Something tells me John wouldn’t appreciate you showing up in the middle of his date, either.”

“Ooooh,” Scottie snickered. “Would you like some ice for that burn?”

The detective narrowed his eyes at Scottie. He then went on with dialing the circus’ Box Office, saying, “Attendees must be 18 or over, ruling you both out anyway. Oh - yes, hello, this is Sherlock Holmes again. Could I actually purchase one additional ticket? ...yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”

\---

The day went on rather uneventfully. Sherlock was, of course, able to persuade John into taking Sarah to the Chinese circus, who for whatever reason remained totally unaware that it had anything to do with their case. As sunset rolled around John left to pick up Sarah, and Sherlock trailed after them at a safe fifteen minute distance.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m headed out too.” Emily pulled a jacket off of its hook and pulled open the door to 221B.

“Where to?” Scottie asked from where he’d been lying down in the middle of the floor.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I thought I’d see a movie while the others were out.”

Scottie snorted. “Alone? Isn’t that kind of sad, even by your standards?”

“At least I had friends back home,” Emily snapped, slamming the door shut behind her.

The boy rolled onto his stomach before picking himself up and ran to the window, pulling aside a curtain to watch Emily come outside and hail a taxi. As soon as she’d driven off, Scottie hurried to put on his own jacket and raced down the stairs, not bothering to lock the door behind him. He had to wait a few minutes longer than Emily had before the next taxi cab came by, and when it did, Scottie hopped in and unwrinkled the address he’d scribbled down earlier.

Scottie certainly thought he was clever, sneaking off to the Chinese circus all by himself. When he got there he paid the cab driver and immediately began circling the building for some sort of back entrance. Behind it he discovered a little alleyway with a few side doors. One opened and someone came out of a it carrying what might have been a large trash bin. Scottie pressed up against the wall around the corner until the man had vanished out the other end. He peeked back into the alley to see that the man had left the door propped open so that he could get back inside easily. Scottie saw the opportunity and took it, tiptoeing as fast as he could up to the door and slipping inside.

It was even darker indoors than outside, which rather surprised him. Scottie stumbled around in the dark for a bit, hoping he was in the right place. Finally he could hear people a little ways away. Although it was difficult to make out exactly what they were saying, it certainly sounded close enough to the fake circus. Scottie reached out and felt a curtain, which he then pulled aside to reveal a backstage area consisting of a little lit up makeup station, several racks of clothing and a bunch of Chinese props.

Scottie then spotted a black duffel bag, partially unzipped with a can of yellow spray paint sticking out of the top. He crouched down in front of it, wondering if it was worth it to take the object with him and impress Sherlock, which would perhaps get him into less trouble for having snuck off after them.

“The fuck are you doing here?” an angry whisper came from behind him.

Scottie let out a loud sigh and stood up. “Probably the same thing as you.” He turned around and faced Emily, who did not in the least look pleased to see him.

“Sherlock’s going to kill you.”

“Oh, don’t be such a hypocrite. He’s going to kill both of us now.”

The kids then heard someone else coming into the dressing room, and they both ducked underneath the makeup station on the side more hidden by shadows and facing a box of props and then the bordering curtain. They couldn’t see anything now, but heard the newcomer’s footsteps as he entered the room. The man stopped a little ways behind them and muttered a “well, well” to himself. Definitely Sherlock.

A second person then entered, and just as they did so Sherlock dove behind a costume rack. This fourth person in the room didn’t stick around long, as just as they left Sherlock came out of hiding again. He located the spray paint-filled duffle bag and bent down, picking one up with a grin that Scottie and Emily could only just see from their own hiding spots. “Found you,” the detective sang. He stood up, came closer to one of the mirrors and shook the can. Sherlock then paused, spotting Scottie and Emily curled up on the floor just behind the stand. “Found you too,” he said unhappily.

“Sherlock, look out!” Emily called out. She pointed a finger behind the consulting detective. Sherlock spun around just in time to see one of the costumes coming at him with a knife, now off of its stand and with someone inside of it.

Sherlock ducked out of the way and used the spray can he was still clutching as a means of blocking a second blow. Scottie and Emily came out of hiding and went for the warrior’s arm carrying the knife, causing him to drop the weapon, and Scottie kicked it out of the way. Emily tried to jump onto his back and pull him down backwards, but this didn’t play out nearly as well as she’d hoped. Sherlock then sprayed the can directly into the warrior’s mask, hoping to blind him, and he stumbled backwards. Unfortunately Emily broke his fall. He flipped back onto two feet with little trouble and picked the girl up. Emily let out a shriek just before being hurled effortlessly at Sherlock, and the two of them went flying through the curtain and into the stage area on the other side.

Sherlock and Emily squirmed about on top of one another, both trying to stand up again despite being completely winded. The warrior then came flying through the curtain, landing just in front of the two of them and poised with the knife that he’d somehow gotten back. Everyone nearby seemed to be in various states of chaos and panic except for John, who immediately charged right at the warrior. This proved rather ineffective, however, as he was sent flying backwards across the room by a single kick. Scottie made an appearance again from the raised stage behind the warrior. He had a bundle of cloth in his hands, presumably from having ripped down one of the curtains, and threw it over the man while jumping on him.

This wasn’t enough to knock him over, and Scottie fell off of his shoulders, but suddenly Sarah was on the scene and armed with one of the large arrows that she’d pulled out from the board after it’d been used in the performance. She jabbed the thing at what was probably the covered warrior’s ribcage, and he stumbled backwards. Sarah immediately came in with a second attack in the same area and the warrior made a sort of grunting noise but didn’t seem to be getting up. Panting, Sarah threw down the arrow to her side and offered out a hand to Scottie to help him to his feet.

Sherlock sat up and leaned forward, flipping up the curtain just enough to reveal the warrior’s leg. He pulled off the guy’s shoe, confirming that there was a tattoo there.

“Come on,” John said, grabbing Sarah’s hand and starting for the exit.

“Come on! Let’s go!” Sherlock said even louder, pushing past them with Scottie in tow. Emily scrambled to her feet and followed after them.

\---

“I’m Emily, by the way,” Emily was saying. She offered out a hand to Sarah, who still looked pretty shaken up. She took it timidly.

“Oh. Are you, um… Are you with him, then?” She gestured to Sherlock, who was currently with John at New Scotland Yard and arguing with Dimmock.

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“And John,” Scottie added. “They adopted us. We have two dads. That’s not a problem, is it?”

“Scottie,” Emily warned.

Sarah blinked in surprise. “You… You don’t say? John never mentioned kids.”

“No, I don’t suppose he would. It’s not exactly a selling point for hooking up with chicks.”

“Scottie.”

“They’re not… you know… Are they?”

“Oh, absolutely! That’s exactly how it is.”

“SCOTTIE!”

The boy grinned back at Emily wickedly. She shook her head, giving him a dirty look.

“He’s joking,” Emily assured Sarah.

“So you’re not their kids, then?” the woman tried to clarify.

“I mean we are. But they’re not like that.”

Sarah didn’t look like she was following.

“Sherlock’s our real dad,” Emily finally lied, not wanting to have to explain the full story. “Scottie just likes to play around. But they’re flatmates, him and John, so sometimes it does feel like we have two dads.” Scottie rolled his eyes and looked away, but thankfully didn’t argue with her.

There was an uncomfortable silence and now the group could hear the other conversation going on. “Lukis and Van Coon were part of a - a smuggling operation,” John was in the middle of trying to explain. “Now, one of them stole something when they were in China. Something valuable.”

“These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back,” Sherlock added.

Dimmock narrowed his eyes at each of them in turn. “Get what back?”

Sherlock bit his lip and looked away angrily. John stared at him for a moment before admitting to the Detective Inspector that they didn’t know.

“You don’t know,” Dimmock echoed. “Mr. Holmes…” The man sat down with a disappointed look about him. “I’ve done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I’ll have something to show for it other than a massive bill for overtime.”

“We’ll find it,” promised John. “Whatever it is, we’ll find it. Or at least figure out what it is they’re looking for.”

“You’d better.”

“And we will. Coming?” Sherlock pushed past Scottie, Emily and Sarah on his way out.

“Back to headquarters it is,” Emily muttered.

Outside the Yard, the five of them huddled up on the sidewalk. “We’re going to have to take separate taxis,” John commented.

“Dibs on Sherlock,” Scottie said.

“Dibs on John,” Emily said at the same time.

“Um. Also dibs on John, then,” Sarah said awkwardly.

Emily smiled. “I like her. And even between Mrs. Hudson and I there isn’t nearly enough estrogen in that complex. So hold onto this one, okay?”

John blinked. “Uh. Alright?”

The first taxi came and Sherlock and Scottie left in it, and a few minutes later John, Emily, and Sarah got into a second. They came into 221B Baker Street to find Sherlock standing in front of the fireplace and staring determinedly at the pictures taped up above it.

“They’ll be back in China by tomorrow,” John mentioned.

“No, they won’t leave without what they came for. We need to find their hideout. The rendezvous.”

Sherlock ran his fingers over the photograph of the painted brick wall. “Somewhere in this message it must tell us...”

Emily glanced over at Sarah, who was currently hovering behind the group and probably feeling rather out of place. “Oh! Can I, uh, get you anything? We’ve mostly just got water and tea, but…”

“Actually you probably should go,” Scottie countered. “The boys are likely to be going to be at this all night. Rather boring for you. In fact, you’d probably just get in their way.”

“Scottie!” John choked, whipping his head around. “He’s kidding. Of course you can stay. Right?” He looked at Sherlock questioningly, then back at Sarah when the man didn’t turn his head or answer. “You can stay.”

“Yes, it would be better to study if you left now,” Sherlock replied simultaneously.

John glared at Sherlock. “He’s kidding. Please stay if you’d like.”

“Yes, please do stay,” Emily agreed.

Scottie let out a melodramatic sigh and threw himself down on the couch. Sarah smiled awkwardly before saying “Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?”

“Ooh, god,” Sherlock let out, shutting his eyes.

“I feel you, bro,” Scottie said softly from across the room.

“Oh! Um. Ah. Yes, I’ll uh, I’ll get working on that,” John announced, feeling obligated to cater to his guest. “Uhm. You just hang tight.”

The doctor scurried off into the kitchen. Sherlock ripped several pictures off of the mirror above the fireplace and took them over to the living room’s table to rummage through. Now that the area was left open, Sarah walked over to it and had a look at what he’d left up.

“So this is what you do, you and John. You solve puzzles for a living.”

“Consulting detective.”

“Oh.”

Everyone in the room aside from Sherlock remained perfectly still in a tense silence before Sarah migrated to just behind Sherlock and peered over his shoulder. “What are these squiggles?” she asked, pointing.

Sherlock looked up with a face that suggested he was very much trying not to kill her for John’s sake. “They’re numbers,” he answered stiffly. “An ancient Chinese dialect.”

Sarah’s response was unbelievably sarcastic. “Oh, right. Yeah. Well, of course I should have known that.”

“Hey, Sarah!” Emily called out from where she’d joined Scottie at the opposite end of the couch. Sarah turned her head. “Why don’t you come over here? Sherlock looks pretty busy, but Scottie and I can explain what’s going on and maybe you won’t feel so out of the loop that way.”

The woman hesitated for a moment before crossing the room. Emily scooted over to the middle of the couch to give her room to get in without stepping over a person or the constantly cluttered coffee table.

“Wonderful, now we’re entertaining John’s date,” Scottie groaned.

“Oh, get over yourself,” hissed Emily. “Sarah’s great. We’re friends now, see?” Emily hugged onto the other female’s arm as if proving a point.

“Are we?” Sarah questioned.

“Aren’t we?”

“Oh. I mean. Yes. Absolutely.”

“See?” Emily said again, leaning forward to give Scottie a look.

“So uh, what about this… this case, then?” Sarah asked, pulling her arm away. “If that’s what you’d call it.”

“It’s a long story,” Scottie said quickly. “You probably wouldn’t even care.”

“I think I’d like to decide that for myself, if you didn’t mind…”

“Emily’s also so bad at telling it, I wouldn’t be surprised if you fell asleep halfway through.”

The younger girl scowled. “Ignore him. He’s not much of a people person. Terrible with company. Always gets like this.”

“Mm. Must come from his father, then.”

“What? Oh, right! Yeah. Probably.”

“You’re full of shit,” the boy growled.

“Hey! Aren’t you a little young to be talking like that?”

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want.”

“Jesus Christ, Scottie, can’t you at least pretend to be agreeable?!”

Sarah stood up then, effectively cutting them both off. “You know what, this has been an interesting conversation, but I think I’m going to go see what Sherlock’s up to. Could need my assistance. You never know.”

“Oh, I think we would know,” murmured Scottie.

Without another word Sarah climbed over the coffee table, knocking over several loose leaf papers in the process but being sure to crouch down and put them back before coming back to Sherlock’s side. The detective didn’t look at all pleased by her return.

“You’re an asshole,” Emily hissed at Scottie.

“Learned it from the best,” he sneered back.

“So these numbers… it’s a cipher?” Sarah asked.

Sherlock lifted his head again and met her eyes. “How did you know that?”

“Well, two words have already been translated, here.” Sarah reached across the table and pointed at the photo of the brick wall that Soo Lin had begun to write on. Sherlock stared at the thing in disbelief and brought it closer in front of himself.

“John.”

“Mm?” John called from the kitchen. The man leaned to the side to see into the room.

“John, look at this.” Sherlock stood up and took the photo from its evidence bag as John came out of the kitchen to see. “Soo Lin at the museum, she started to translate the code for us. We didn’t see it! “Nine” “mill”.”

John squinted at the photograph. “Does that mean millions?”

“Nine million quid. For what?” All too eager to get out of the flat and as far away from Sarah as possible, Sherlock hurried over to fetch his coat and scarf. “We need to know the end of this sentence,” he explained.

“Where are you going?”

“To the museum; to the restoration room. Oh, we must have been staring right at it!”

“At - at what?”

“The book, John! The book - the key to cracking the cipher!”

“How mad would you be if I just told him the damned message?” yawned Emily.

Scottie gasped. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

“I’m just saying, it’d sure speed this whole thing up.”

Sherlock had just left, but the kids hardly seemed to notice it. Scottie stared back at her in utter astonishment. “Speed it up? What do you care about speeding it up? It’d just throw a wrench in the episode’s timeline, that’s what it’d do. You’d be personally responsible for screwing up an entire episode.”

“By what? Trying to be helpful?”

“Are you just in that much of a hurry to get home?!”

“If it means not having to be stuck spending time with you anymore, then hell yes, I am!” Emily spat back.

“Hey hey hey, cool it, guys!” John jumped in between the two of them, hoping to break up the fight. “We have company over. Is it too much to ask for a little civility? For her sake?”

“Hey, I’ll stop causing problems as soon as she does,” Scottie announced. “And if you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your lady friend, maybe you should’ve considered, y’know, dropping her off before you got dragged back into this crazy home situation.”

“Is that what this is about? You don’t like the fact that I have a date?”

“Well it wasn’t, but it certainly can be.”

“Just look at him, causing all kinds of problems tonight,” Emily scoffed. “You’re even worse than Sherlock when it comes to offending people.”

“I think I’d better go,” Sarah said apologetically, gathering up what little things she had with her and inching towards the door.

John’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? No, why?”

“I understand how it is with kids sometimes. I’ll let you work this one out.”

“N-No, please! Please. Sarah. No one wants you to go, I promise.” Following her out into the foyer, he reached an arm out as if trying to pull her back in, but the woman just kept on shaking her head.

“No, really, it’s fine,” Sarah kept saying.

“The next date won’t be like this. Any of it. I promise.”

“I know.” Sarah stepped forward, giving John a quick peck on the lips. Blushing, she turned away again and started down the stairs.

“C-Call me!” John shouted after her as she disappeared. There was a long and uncomfortable silence. John then whipped his head around at Scottie and Emily, who stood across from him in the living room looking guilty. Realizing he looked hella pissed, they both made a mad dash for the other room. What the guilty party hadn’t counted on was that he would re-enter the flat through its door opening up to the kitchen, successfully cutting Scottie and Emily off.

“Busted,” Emily gulped.

John was fuming. He clenched his hands into tight fists. “I hope you’re proud of yourselves, scaring away guests like that. Ruining my date.”

Scottie rolled his eyes. “Oh, boo hoo. So you’re not getting laid tonight. Big whoop.”

“Oh, shut up! Sarah was nice and as much as you don’t want to admit it, you liked her too. But I don’t suppose she’s going to think too highly of us after that little scene you caused back there.”

“I’m sorry, but did you just say the scene I caused? Because--”

“I’m dead serious!” the doctor shouted. “This fighting has got to stop. We’re caught up in the middle of Chinese gang violence, for God’s sake! If you two don’t start growing up sooner or later someone’s going to get killed. And even if that weren’t the case, your behavior was totally inappropriate for having company over. You embarrassed me in front of Sarah tonight. All I wanted was to have one nice, romantic night to myself - just one. But apparently that can’t happen, because instead I have to spend it scolding a couple of five year olds!”

“I’ll stop as soon as Emily quits being such a colossal twat every two minutes,” Scottie said with a humph.

“I could say the same thing about you, assface!”

“THAT’S ENOUGH! You’re grounded, both of you!”

Scottie snorted. “What, are we not allowed to text our friends or go to parties? Because son, I’ve got some news for you…”

John frowned. “No, but I can stop you from coming with us on cases and change the wifi password.”

There was a collective gasp from the teenagers.

“You ungrateful little shits,” John shook his head disapprovingly. “You’re not making any money for yourselves. Mrs. Hudson lets you have an entire flat for free, and Sherlock and I are constantly making sure you’re getting fed. And this is how you repay us? By using vulgar language and causing a scene everywhere we go? Getting kicked out of banks? Do you guys even know what it is you’re fighting about anymore? Because I bloody well don’t.” Scottie and Emily met eyes and then looked away again. John sighed.

There was a knock on the front door downstairs. John pointed a finger at Scottie and Emily. “I’ll go see who that is. This conversation isn’t over.” The man exited the flat through the door he’d come in on, shutting it behind him.

“So um. Scottie… Maybe John’s right, and we should… y’know. Talk about this.”

Scottie shrugged, still not looking at her. “I don’t think there’s anything that needs to be said that hasn’t been already.”

The girl huffed. “Why are you always doing that?”

“Doing what? Being honest?”

“Being a shit, that’s what! You say you respect other people’s opinions, but God forbid it’s anything different from yours--”

“Shhh!”

“What? No! Don’t you shush me when I’m lecturing you!”

Just then a small group of Chinese men wearing jackets with their hoods pulled up filed into the room. Scottie immediately tried to fight back, grabbing a metal tool from where it had been resting beside the fireplace.He took a swing at the nearest Chinese man, but the guy grabbed it without any concern whatsoever and pulled the weapon out of Scottie’s hand, dropping it behind him. Emily let out a shriek that was quickly muffled by a cloth that one of them pressed up against her mouth, holding her from behind. They did the same to Scottie, knocking him on the floor holding him down with it. They both became dizzy as the world around them started to fade to black.

\---

When Scottie and Emily regained consciousness, they saw that they had apparently taken Sarah’s place and were in some sort of large tunnel, dimly lit in several place by fires burning in trash bins. They were each tied to a couple of chairs with their backs pressed together, gags in their mouths, and feeling rather stupid for not having seen this coming in the least. A little ways away they could see John in a similar situation. Unlike them, his mouth was free, but he had a still-bleeding cut on his left temple.

A Chinese woman wearing sunglasses despite the darkness came forward, and the teens recognized her as the opera singer from the performance earlier. Well, they recognized her as Shan as well, but they weren’t necessarily supposed to know that piece of information just yet.

“A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket.” Shan stopped in front of John and lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head dramatically. “Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes.”

John looked at her, startled. “I… I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”

Shan smiled humorlessly. “Forgive me if I do not take your word for it.” The woman reached forward and pulled John’s jacket open, rummaging through its inner pocket. John winced in pain. Having found his wallet, she leaned back again and removed an item from it. “Debit card, name of S. Holmes.”

“Yes, that’s not actually mine. He lent that to me.”

“A check for five thousand pounds made out in the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes…”

“Yeah, he gave me that to look after.”

“Tickets from the theater, collected by you, name of Sherlock Holmes.”

“I realize what this looks like,” John pleaded, “but I’m not him.”

“We heard it from your own mouth,” Shan continued.

“What?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone.”

John kept his eyes fixed ahead in disbelief. “Did I really say that?” He chuckled weakly and then lowered his head in pain. “I s’pose there’s no use me trying to persuade you I was doing an impression.”

Shan raised a gun then, pointing it at John’s head. John cringed away from it, starting to panic. Shan smiled. “I am Shan.”

“You’re… You’re Shan?”

“Three times we tried to kill you and your companions, Mr. Holmes. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?” She lifted her hand cocked the pistol.

John turned his head away, muttering “Don’t, don’t,” and struggling against his bonds. As Shan’s finger tightened around the trigger he looked up at the barrel of the gun in terror. From just a few feet away Scottie looked on helplessly, while Emily had to turn her head away just in case things didn’t go according to the script.

Shan pulled the trigger back all the way and the gun made a clicking noise, but nothing else happened. She smiled deviously. “It tells you that they’re not really trying.”

John was breathing heavily now. Shan slid a clip into the gun and cocked it before resuming her stance with the weapon aimed at John. “Not blank bullets now,” she mused.

“Okay,” John wheezed.

“If we wanted to kill you, Mr. Holmes, we would have done it by now. We wanted to make you inquisitive. Do you have it?”

“Do I have what?”

“The treasure.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” insisted John.

Shan turned away. “I would prefer to make certain.” The Chinese woman looked to her men now. One of them pulled away a cloth cover from what they could now see was the same crossbow that had been used in the circus act, already loaded with an arrow. John stared at it and sighed deeply just before Shan looked to him again. “Everything in the West has its price, and the price for their lives… information.”

John turned his head towards where Scottie and Emily were being held captive. Two men lifted the conjoined chairs and brought them closer to the crossbow. Scottie and Emily squirmed against their bonds and cried out, but the gags prevented anyone from hearing what they said. “Sorry,” John said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Where’s the hairpin?” pressed Shan, gun still raised.

John continued to fight against his own bonds. “What?”

“The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West, and then one of our people was greedy. He took it. Brought it back to London and you, Mr. Holmes, have been searching.”

“Please,” John tried desperately. “Please, listen to me. I’m not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me. I haven’t found whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“I need a volunteer from the audience,” Shan said loudly.

“No, please. Please. They’re just kids!”

“Oh, what is this? Two volunteers? How unusual… But, I suppose we can make it work. Thank you. Yes, you’ll both do very nicely.” Shan took out a knife now and brought it up to the sandbag suspended over the crossbow. She then stabbed the bag with her knife, letting the sand spill out of it slowly. Shan smiled dangerously and looked around, as if addressing an imaginary audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the woman announced. “From the moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes’ little companions in a death-defying act.”

“Please!” John wailed again.

Shan walked over to Emily, who was the one facing the crossbow head-on, and placed a black origami lotus flower in her lap.

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!” John continued to call out desperately.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should, you know,” came Sherlock’s very much welcomed voice. Scottie recognized his familiar silhouette at the far end of the tunnel and let out a squeal of delight. “Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him.”

Now Shan pointed her gun at the real Sherlock, but he dove out of the way and disappeared into the shadows. One of Shan’s thugs started sprinting towards him.

“How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

“Late?” John chimed in with a hint of annoyance.

“That’s a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet with travel at over a thousand meters per second.”

Shan made no effort to lower her gun. “Well?” she pressed.

“Well…” The Chinese man had gone after Sherlock was now at the end of the tunnel. Sherlock sprung out from where he’d been hiding and twacked the thug across his stomach with a metal pipe. The man collapsed to ground with a thud and Sherlock ran back into the darkness before continuing his train of thought. “The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you.”

Sherlock lept out again and kicked over one of the burning trash bins. Shan’s eyes widened and then squinted around the tunnel, which was now even harder to see in. Suddenly Sherlock appeared again, this time knelt down next to Scottie and Emily. He started attempting to detach their tied up hands from the backs of the chairs when another man came up from behind him (probably Zhi Zhu) and began to loop a red scarf around Sherlock’s throat. The Chinese man that was probably Zhi Zhu then pulled at it and Sherlock stood up, struggling to yank it off from the front. Scottie made a dismayed sort of growling noise and Emily somehow managed to jab him quiet with the back of her shoulder. The girl looked back up at the tip of the arrow, positioned where it could easily go right through her own neck and into Scottie’s in the same blow. Sand continued to drain out of its bag and she desperately hoped everything’s timing wasn’t thrown off from what happened in the original episode. And then something else occurred to her.

Rather than waiting and hoping it played out the same, Emily started rocking side to side as much as she could despite the ties. Scottie realized what she was doing and helped out, and together they were able to tip the chairs over and hit their sides against the ground with a soft thud. They let out a simultaneous sigh of relief through their noses and briefly wondered why the fuck Sherlock never thought to do that in the first place.

John made an attempt to stand up, which sort of worked, and he trudged forward a few steps, hunched over and dragging the chair with him, before falling over. From where he landed his head was now less than a foot away from Scottie and Emily’s.

“Oh so you did manage to get out of the way,” he managed, looking up. “Good for you.”

Only then did Scottie realize that their being out of immediate danger would prevent John from kicking at the crossbow and having it fire into the chest of the man Sherlock was currently fighting. He tried to reach out his own leg, but of course it was too far away. Using all of his effort, Scottie attempted to dig his feet into the ground and scoot closer. Now it was Emily’s turn to help him, and she pushed against the ground at a weird angle, inching them forward. John didn’t seem to know what was going on either, but still he turned himself around and gave them a good kick forward.

Scottie still wasn’t anywhere near close enough to the crossbow to do what John would have done (and also didn’t trust himself to not hit Sherlock even if he were). He was, however, considerably closer to Sherlock and the Chinese man. Sherlock’s attacker wrapped yet another tight loop around the detective’s neck, and it was becoming obvious that he was starting to go pale. Scottie waited for a moment until the duo got close enough and then he threw out both legs, wrapping them around the Chinese thug and pulling them in again so that he was knocked backwards. Assuming that this man was the same Zhi Zhu, revenge for the earlier blow felt rather sweet. Sherlock came tumbling down as well, crashing on top of him. The crossbow went off, its arrow flying straight forward but, as far as anyone in the immediate vicinity could tell, not hitting anything at the end of the tunnel. In the Chinese man’s confusion Sherlock somehow wriggled out of the scarf and spun around on top of the man, using the same strip of cloth to pull his neck now. The other man fought to push Sherlock off of him, but after several seconds of struggling to do so he finally went limp. Sherlock let go of the scarf, taking deep and uneven breaths. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist, swallowed, and then looked to Scottie.

“Thanks.”

The group heard footsteps and assumed they were Shan’s as she ran her ass out of there. Sherlock looked up but made no attempt to go after her. Instead he crawled towards John, Emily, and Scottie. “It’s alright,” he said as soothingly as possible, and John propped himself onto his elbows with a groan. Sherlock reached forward and untied Emily’s gag and then Scottie’s, taking each from their mouths. “You’re gonna be alright,” he kept saying. “It’s over now. It’s over.”

Now kneeling, Sherlock brought their chairs upright again and continued to untie the ropes around their wrists. Once they were free Sherlock got to work on releasing John. Emily rubbed at her wrists uncomfortably.

“Hey, can we talk for a minute?” Scottie asked, dropping his voice. “It’s about… you know. Earlier.”

Emily frowned. “I thought you said there was nothing that hadn’t already been said?” she asked softly.

“Shush. This past hour or so has been an eye-opening experience for me. Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Um. Okay?”

Scottie let out a breath and peered down the tunnel before turning back to Emily. “Look. Some of the stuff I called you earlier… I didn’t mean all that, alright? It’s just that. Well. You have this whole other life waiting for you back home that you’re genuinely attached to. And I get that. I really do. But at the same time… I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t like you continuously pointing out the fact that I don’t come from something like that. I try not to be jealous, but it isn’t easy with you rubbing it in my face all the time. And all this… whatever it is, whyever we’re here… I don’t understand it either, and you’re right. It is scary. But it’s also the only place I’ve ever begun to feel like I truly belonged and was a part of. And I wanted you to respect that.”

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t realize you felt that way,” Emily replied sheepishly. “I suppose I was just scared about all that. Not knowing why we’re here or what’s going to happen to us now, I mean.. But then you were so unconcerned. All carefree and unconcerned and I just… I guess that’s what made me mad. I wish I could feel the same way about it as you do. That I could… enjoy every minute of this crazy, amazing ride without worrying about anything else. But I just can’t. I don’t know. It’s dumb.”

The was a pause during which either of the two knew quite what to say next. They knew that they would never completely sympathize with the other, but they also saw where they each were coming from, and that made a difference.

“Awkward sibling hug?” Scottie finally offered.

Emily nodded. “Awkward sibling hug.”

Scottie and Emily embraced one another for a moment and then both patted the other against their back while saying “pat, pat.”

John, now standing a little ways away, smiled. “Sibling? I thought you guys weren’t related.”

“We’re not,” answered Scottie, “but technically you guys adopted us, so. That’s how those things work, right?”

John blinked in surprise for a moment. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He hesitated, looking from Sherlock back to Scottie and Emily. “Awkward family hug?” he finally asked. With a grin, Scottie and Emily each offered out an arm and John came forward, hugging onto them both.

Sherlock stared wistfully off towards the tunnel exit. “As much as I love that everyone is getting along now and having a moment, I can just wait for you back at the flat.”

“Oh, get in here,” urged John. “You’re just as much their dad as I am.”

Although very hesitant at first, Sherlock did eventually come forward and join in, and all four of them just kind of stood there holding onto each other lovingly for an almost inappropriate amount of time. Because as unlikely as it might have seemed just a few short months earlier, this strange blend of fictional characters and their real-world fans had become a family. Sure, they had their obvious differences and fought about dumb things and got caught up in the middle of shootouts with Chinese smugglers, but despite all this, at the end of the day they all still loved and accepted one another. And isn’t that what a family is really all about?

“Alright, enough of that,” Sherlock finally said, pulling away and looking a tad embarrassed at having stooped to their level. “We’ve got company.”

The four of them exited the tunnel to find the police had arrived to clean up the mess, so Sherlock must have called them on his way over. Inspector Dimmock was waiting beside his police car as they approached. Sherlock nodded to him. “We’ll just slip off. No need to mention us in your report.”

“Mr. Holmes…”

“I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career.”

Dimmock seemingly forced a smile. “I go where you point me.”

“Exactly,” muttered Sherlock, already walking away with John and the kids trailing behind single file. Emily, who was last in line, winked at the Inspector as she passed, to which he very noticeably stiffened.

\---

Scottie and Emily slept surprisingly well that night. They were up earlier than usual the following morning, and didn’t bicker once as they got dressed and came to join Sherlock and John upstairs. The adults must have been up even earlier, because John was seated at the kitchen table looking over something as Sherlock poured the contents of a teapot into his flatmate’s mug.

“Oh, did you want some?” he offered.

“Yes please,” Emily said, already fishing a mug out of the cupboard for herself and handing it to him. Scottie simply shook his head.

“Ta…” John muttered to himself. “So, Nine mill.”

“Million,” Scottie said, pulling up a seat for himself. Sherlock handed Emily her tea and began pouring some for himself.

“Million, yes. Nine million for jade pin. Dragon den, black Tramway.”

“An instruction to all their London operatives,” clarified Sherlock.

“Mm.”

“A message; what they were trying to reclaim.”

“What, a jade pin?”

“Oy vey,” muttered Emily as she sipped at her tea as carefully as possible as to not burn herself on it.

“Worth nine million pounds. Bring it to the Tramway, their London hideout.”

John still was having difficulty keeping up. “Hang on: a hairpin was worth nine million pounds?”

“Apparently,” Sherlock said disinterestedly.

“Add that to list of reasons I don’t understand fashion,” Scottie chuckled.

“Why worth so much?”

“Depends on who owned it.”

\---

“Two operatives based in London,” Sherlock was saying as he and others approached Shad Sanderson Bank. “They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to something: a little hairpin.”

“Worth nine million pounds,” added John.

“Eddie Van Coon was the thief. He stole the treasure when he was in China.”

“How d’you know it was Van Coon, not Lukis? Even the killer didn’t know that.”

Sherlock pushed through the bank’s revolving doors confidently. “Because of the soap.” He looked over his shoulder to give John a smug smile. John halted, staring back blankly, and then pressed forward once more.

They were walking quickly, and neither Scottie nor Emily said a word as they hurried to keep up with the older gentlemen. When they were nearing the top of the escalator Sherlock pulled out his phone. “He brought you a present,” he said into it. “A little gift when he came back from China.”

Sherlock turned around the corner, John just behind him, as Scottie and Emily reached the top of the escalator. Emily stepped off after Scottie and pulled her friend back by his sleeve. “Can this wait?” he asked and turned around. “I want to see the look on Amanda’s face when she realizes just how much her pin is worth. I mean, technically I did see it, but I want to see it in person.”

“Yeah about that…” The girl fished around in her bra for a moment (much to Scottie’s confusion and annoyance) until she pulled out a tiny jade hairpin. The nine million pound Empress’ Hairpin.

Scottie stared down at it wide-eyed. His eyes shifted back up to Emily, who smiled innocently.

“Where did you get that?”

“Off of Amanda’s desk. When I was looking for the restroom before we got kicked out. I don’t know, she set it down for a moment and… Look, Van Coon isn’t the only person who’s been known to suddenly get sticky fingers, alright?”

Scottie looked around, suddenly paranoid. “Emily,” he hissed. “You knew how much it was worth and how important it was to the plot! I can’t even… Oh my God, Emily! What the fuck is wrong with you! We all nearly died and you had it in your bra the ENTIRE FUCKING TIME!”

“What should I do?” she whispered worriedly. “I can’t give it back now! Then they’ll know I stole it in the first place!”

Scottie nodded slowly. “Whelp. You kinda dug yourself into this one. The only obvious solution is to RUN AND DON’T LOOK BACK!” The boy gave Emily a shove back the way they’d come, which resulted in the two of them frantically attempting to run down the escalator that was still going up.

“Gosh darn, not you kids again,” a familiar voice rang out. “Hey! I thought I told you never to come back here!”

Suppressing giggles, the two troublemakers darted around the bank security guard and continued their mad dash to the rotating doors at the building’s entrance. Emily was still clinging tightly to the Empress’ Hairpin.

“You’re going to have to get rid of that thing somewhere Sherlock will never think to look for it, you know,” Scottie pointed out.

Still running, she glanced over at him guiltily. “Oh god. He’s going to kill us when he finds out, isn’t he?”

“I think you mean ‘if’ he finds out.”

Emily grinned. “Ah, yes. If. If is good."


	3. The Great Derp

Bang! Bang!

Two loud gunshots rang out, followed by a third and then a fourth. Index fingers pressed in his ears, John Watson scurried up the stairwell to find Sherlock seated in an armchair and firing his handgun at the defenseless wall.

“What the hell are you doing?” the army doctor screeched.

“Bored,” Sherlock groaned half-heartedly.

“...What?”

“BORED! BORED!” Sherlock Holmes lept to his feet, firing the gun twice more. Scottie and Emily reached the top of the stairs just in time to see John confiscate and unload the weapon. “I don’t know what’s gotten into the criminal classes,” Sherlock muttered. “It’s a good job I’m not one of them.”

“So you take it out on the wall?”

“Oh, the wall had it coming.”

Knowing exactly at what point in the storyline they were, Scottie wiggled his eyebrows at Emily, who acknowledged the gesture with a sharp elbow to his side. Sherlock threw himself down across the couch and the two teenagers filed in, assuming that it was safe now that the flat was no longer being used as a shooting range.

“What about that Russian case?” John was saying.

Emily pulled her purse off from over her shoulder and tossed it onto the already cluttered coffee table. “Psst! Hey, Scottie!” she whispered.

“What?”

She joined him at the opposite end of the room, smiling deviously. “Have you ever played the ‘penis game’?”

Scottie frowned. “What, you mean like where people would take turns saying the word ‘penis’ and gradually get louder until someone else in the room notices and throws a bitchfit over it?” Emily nodded slowly. “But why would we...?” Scottie sighed. “Penis,” he muttered as softly as he could manage. This went on for some time and with each turn the two players allowed their voices to slowly transition from a barely audible whisper to an appropriate volume for ordinary indoor conversation.

“Anything in?” John called from the other room. “I’m starving.”

“Penis.”

He slammed the fridge door shut with a gagging sound.

“Penis.”

“What was that?” Sherlock asked, looking up.

Emily pursed her lips together. “Nothing,” she purred.

John didn’t appear to have heard them yet. “A severed head!” he exclaimed, still in disbelief at what he’d just witnessed. The rest of the gang, however, remained almost disturbingly calm regarding this announcement.

Sherlock settled down once more. “Just tea for me, thanks.”

“This isn’t over yet,” Emily insisted. “Penis!”

“There’s a head in the fridge!” John stormed into the living room, his fists in tight balls. “A bloody head!”

“Well, where else was I supposed to--”

“PENIS!”

The entire room fell silent. Three sets of eyes fell on Scottie, who shuffled awkwardly where he stood. He hesitated for a moment, mouth slightly ajar. “I... um... I said... the pen... pen is... Y’know what, never mind. Don’t worry about it.” Emily pressed a finger over her lips in an attempt to stifle a giggle. Now it was Scottie’s turn to elbow her in the side.

“If it is our attention you want you might have at least said something a bit more original,” Sherlock said. “Like vagina.”

John furrowed his brows for a moment and shook his head abruptly. “That’s it - I’ve had enough of you three. Between their goofing off, and you with your... your disembodied heads in the fridge...” He rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Scottie and Emily. If you’re that bored, might I suggest you play something nice and quiet? Cards, perhaps?”

They did so, just to humor the man. Once the two kids had taken over the majority of the floor space, there was a minute or so of silence before Sherlock spoke again.

“I see you’ve written up the taxi driver case.”

“Yes,” John said flatly, taking a seat in his armchair.

Sherlock looked back towards the ceiling. “A Study in Pink. Nice.”

John shrugged. “Well. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone - there was a lot of pink.” Beat. “Did you like it?”

As if going out of his way to irritate his flatmate, Sherlock held up a newspaper. “Ummm... no,” he droned. The personal offense John took from this answer was evident across his face.

“Why not? I thought you’d be flattered.”

“Flattered?” Sherlock lowered the paper to shoot John a look. “Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.”

“Now, hang on a minute,” John tried. “I didn’t mean th--”

“BULLSHIT!”

The awkward silence returned. Emily let out an exasperated sigh and picked up the pile of cards. “Yeah, whatever. Cheater.”

Scottie huffed. “I am not cheating. I have half the deck, same as you.”

“Yes, because I told you that BS does not work with only two--”

“Sorry, are we interrupting something?” John snapped.

“Hey, you’re the one who told us to play with cards,” sassed Scottie.

John folded his arms across his chest. “Last time I checked, playing cards didn’t involve shouting.”

Emily tucked several long strands of hair behind her ear nonchalantly. She was lying across the floor on her stomach, ankles cross and dangling in the air. “Then you’re playing the wrong kind of card games, mate.”

John took a deep breath before jumping to his feet and darting for the door. “Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, looking up slightly.

“Out.” John slid an arm through his coat sleeve and made for the stairs. “I need some air.” He bumped into Mrs. Hudson on his way out, who apologized for the incident just before popping her head into 221B.

“Yoo-hoo,” the older woman sang, knocking against the open door to be sure that she was welcome inside.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Scottie and Emily cried out happily. They both set down their respective stacks of cards and charged towards their landlady, throwing their arms around her in a tight hug. Mrs. Hudson laughed, patting Scottie on the top of his head. “Now, now,” she went on, prying the teens off of her. “That’s about enough of that. I just came to drop off a few things.”

Mrs. Hudson disappeared into the kitchen. Sherlock sprang up and made for the window. Pushing its curtain aside, he watched the street below in silence.

“Now you kids be good and stay out of trouble,” Mrs. Hudson warned, reentering the living room. She paused in the doorway and squinted. “Sherlock, dear, what have you done to my wall? I’m putting this on your rent, young man.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth rose into a slight smirk and Mrs. Hudson disappeared downstairs again. No one spoke. Finally breaking the uneasy silence, Scottie reached over and slapped Emily on the arm.

“Tag! You’re it!” 

The boy took off, but Emily was immediately on his trail. They circled the living room twice, Sherlock watching with a slightly concerned expression, before Emily tripped over an electrical cord and fell flat on her face. The lamp that it had been attached to came toppling down immediately afterwards, trapping the girl underneath. “You little shit!” Emily hissed, struggling to get up again. Scottie took advantage of her temporary delay and made a mad dash out the door, unable to contain a stream of maniacal laughter.

“I am the king of tag!” he announced loudly somewhere from the ground floor. “Bow down before me, pitiful mortals!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Emily threatened. She slid down the stair’s railing and jumped off at the bottom.

Unfortunately, despite having already seen the original episode, neither one of them seemed to recall the explosion that was about to go off. Suddenly there was what sounded like an entire fireworks show going off all at once and the sound of glass shattering. The ground shook with the force of the explosion and Scottie and Emily were both thrown to the floor.

\---

When John returned the following morning in a panic, he found Sherlock and his brother Mycroft seated facing one another and in the middle of a conversation as if nothing had even happened. Nearby, Scottie was taking advantage of the fact that John’s computer didn’t have a password and had just finished redoing John’s blog so that it reflected his headcanons regarding Johnlock. He immediately slammed it shut upon the man’s entrance and Mycroft glanced over his shoulder.

“John,” Sherlock said.

“I saw it on the telly,” John began explaining. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock looked surprised for a moment. “Me? What? Oh, yeah - fine. Gas leak, apparently.” Leaning against the side of Sherlock’s armchair and seated on the floor, Emily plucked away at Sherlock’s violin in her lap. “Can’t.”

“Can’t?” Mycroft repeated, spinning the closed umbrella that he had been holding in the palm of his hand.

“The stuff I’ve got on is just too big. I can’t spare the time.”

Mycroft grimaced. “Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance. And for the love of God, would you please stop that infernal pizzicatoing? I can hardly stand this dispute without having the theme to Pirates of the Caribbean plucked in the background!” Emily paused in what she had been doing, stuck her tongue out at Mycroft, and then went right on back.

“How’s the diet?” Sherlock asked mockingly, successfully drawing the elder Holmes’ attention back in.

“Fine. Perhaps you can get through to him, John.”

“What?” John asked. He felt quite out of the loop, to be perfectly honest, but did his best to keep the others from noticing this.

“I’m afraid my brother can be intransigent.”

“If you’re so keen, why don’t you investigate it?” Sherlock leaned over the chair’s arm and pulled his instrument away from Emily, who then made an obvious display of staged pouting. He strummed at a couple of open strings, checking that it was still in tune.

Mycroft shook his head. “No, no, no, no. I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so...” Sherlock and John both met his eyes. “Well. You don’t need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this, it requires... legwork.”

Sherlock plucked another note and turned his attention to John, who seemed to be pacing back and forth across the floor space aimlessly. “How’s Sarah, John?” the detective asked. “How was the lilo?”

Mycroft checked his pocket watch. “Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“How...” John shook his head and finally sat down on the couch. “Never mind.”

“Sherlock’s business seems to be booming since you and he became... pals,” Mycroft went on, recrossing his legs.

“Us too,” Scottie finally chimed in.

“How could I forget. What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.”

“I’m never bored,” Scottie, Emily, and John all said at the same time.

“Good,” Mycroft said, faking a smile to the best of his ability. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Sherlock smacked Emily’s hand with his violin bow. She pulled away again and frowned, her attempt to steal back the instrument from right under his very nose having failed. Mycroft stood up and handed a stack of papers to John. “Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends, civil servant, found dead on the tracks of Battersea station this morning with his head bashed in.”

“Jumped in front of a train?” John guessed.

“That seems the logical assumption.”

“But?”

“But?” Mycroft echoed. Scottie and Emily each took a turn repeating the word ‘but’ after one another, attempting to make each sound more dramatic than the last.

“Ignore them,” John instructed.

Mycroft gave him a tense smile. “Believe me, I’m trying. In any case, the MoD is working on a new missile defense system. The Bruce Partington Program, it’s called. The plans for it were on a memory stick.”

“‘Memory stick’? You mean flash drive?” Emily wondered aloud.

“That wasn’t very clever,” John mused, flipping through the file he had been given. In the background Sherlock had begun rosining his bow.

“It wasn’t the only copy.”

“Oh?”

“But it’s secret. And missing.”

“Top secret?”

“Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick and we can’t possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands,” Mycroft explained. “You’ve got to find those plans, Sherlock... Don’t make me order you.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Sherlock’s voice was flat and hostile.

“Think it over. Goodbye, John... kids.” Mycroft nodded to Scottie and Emily, who waved back. John got up to shake Mycroft’s hand before he took his leave. “Think it over.”

Popping up from between Sherlock’s legs, Emily snatched the violin and bow away. She immediately began to celebrate her victory by playing a cheery fiddle tune from The Lord of the Rings. Sherlock made a face but put no effort into standing up to retrieve the thing from her.

“Why’d you lie?” John asked, having to raise his voice to be heard over Emily’s playing. “You’ve got nothing on. Not a single case. That’s why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?”

“Moreover, why didn’t you tell a single Fatcroft joke?” Scottie demanded, kicking his legs up onto the desk. “I gave you so many to work with last time!”

“Those were quite good,” Sherlock admitted.

“Oh. Right.” John nodded knowingly. “Sibling rivalry. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Emily held down the violin. “Is it just me, or is it always the younger sibling who insists on being a stubborn pain in the ass? No offense or anything.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t miss her,” Scottie said.

Emily threw her back against the flat’s wall. “I do,” she moaned. “I really do.”

Sherlock was about to say something when his cell phone went off. He reached inside his jacket, answering it: “Sherlock Holmes... Of course. How could I refuse.” The consulting detective shut the phone and put it in his pocket whilst in the process of standing. “Lestrade,” he explained to anyone who cared. “I’ve been summoned. Coming?”

John was at his side in mere seconds. “If you want me to. Of course.”

“I ship it,” Scottie sighed dreamily.

“Oh, I know you do.” Emily rolled her eyes, hurrying to put Sherlock’s violin back into its case. “Wait for us!” she called after Sherlock and John. She and Scottie then grabbed their jackets and hurried outside, shutting the door behind them.

\---

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to wait out here,” Lestrade told the two teenagers.

Scottie was practically fuming at this news. “Now listen here! We came all this way--”

“We weren’t even in the cab for fifteen minutes,” Emily reminded him coolly.

“--we came from less than fifteen minutes away and you won’t even let us step inside?”

Lestrade crossed his arms. “You two aren’t with the police. That being said, I can’t let minors such as yourselves past this public area.”

“But we’re with Sherlock. He’s like the entire Scotland Yard, minus the stupid!” Scottie folded his arms as well and straightened his back as much as possible in a poor attempt to look slightly taller than he really was. He clearly meant business.

“There’s a hot chocolate machine just around the corner,” John said before following the rest of the adults into the next room.

“Consider me sold,” Emily announced, embarking on her latest quest for free hot chocolate. Scottie made a pissed off grunting noise before plopping into one of the lounge’s seats.

“God damnit,” he growled. “I really didn’t expect everyone to be so prejudiced against young people over here. And you’re no help, allowing yourself to be bribed with... with hot water and chocolate packets!”

“Hey, a girl’s got needs!”

Luckily the others were only gone a matter of minutes. Emily had only just retrieved her drink when Sherlock, John, and Lestrade came flooding out again. “Oh, guess that’s our cue,” Scottie breathed and they both trailed the squad out.

\---

They were back at Baker Street in no time at all. With hardly a word thrown in their direction, Scottie and Emily followed closely behind the other three as they approached the flat 221C.

“Now hold up,” Emily gasped. “That’s our flat! You don’t mean that...?”

Scottie squeaked. “But would he really, even when he knows we’re staying in there?” Sherlock glanced at Scottie and Emily suspiciously before pushing open the door.

“You said this one’s yours?” Lestrade questioned, obvious disgust in his face. “It looks like this place has been abandoned for ages.”

He had a point. The wallpaper was peeling, dark bits of what was probably mold stained the corners of the room, and there wasn’t a single piece of furniture save a table, pushed against the wall and still covered in a thick layer of dust.

“In our defense,” Emily started slowly, “we mostly just use the bedroom and kind of chill with Sherlock and John upstairs all day every day.”

“What are you talking about? Our room isn’t much better and we’ve been occupying it for months. You keep leaving all your shit on the floor unfolded, oh, and don’t get me started on your ‘organization tactics’ in the bath--”

“Scottie! Can we not?"

“Shoes.”

The teenagers fell quiet as John stepped between them, drawing everyone’s attention towards a single pair of running shoes that had been placed neatly together in the center of the room. Sherlock dropped to the ground and pressed his nose against the foreign object. Emily bit her lip and exchanged glances with Scottie. A cell phone ringer went off just then and the detective stood up again and pulled out the phone. It wasn’t his phone. Rather, it looked exactly the same as Jennifer Wilson’s from A Study in Pink. He stared at it for a moment before pressing a button to answer.

“Hello?”

Although hard to make out, the voice on the other line was a woman’s, and she sounded as if she had just been crying. “Hello... sexy...” she choked.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Who is this?”

“I’ve sent you a little puzzle just to say hi,” the woman went on.

John, Lestrade, Emily, and Scottie held their breaths as Sherlock spoke on the phone. “Who’s talking?” he asked slowly. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. I’m typing and this stupid bitch is reading it out.”

Lifting his head, Sherlock appeared to have just pieced something together. “The curtain rises,” he mumbled softly.

“What?” John asked.

“Nothing.”

“No, what do you mean?” he pressed.

“I’ve been expecting this for some time,” Sherlock confessed. “Feel free to ask Scottie and Emily about it. I’ve a feeling they know more than they’re letting on.” Scottie gulped and Emily felt herself turning a flushed shade of pink.

“Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock,” the woman said over the phone, “or I’m going to be so naughty.” The line went dead and an eerie silence filled 221C.

\---

Although Scottie and Emily did, in fact, know the conclusion that Jim Moriarty had been trying to get Sherlock to come to, they ultimately decided against giving it away for the sake of continuity. At St. Bartholomew’s, Scottie was just returning from using the restroom when he turned a corner and spotted Molly Hooper and Moriarty coming towards him. Scottie squeaked in alarm and pressed against the wall. He waited until they had turned the other way before making a mad dash to the laboratory where Sherlock, John, and Emily were hanging out.

“He’s here!” Scottie screeched, flinging the doors open. Sherlock glanced up from what he had just been doing with the tennis shoe.

“Sorry? Who?” John answered.

“He’s here he’s here he’s here and he’s coming this way,” Scottie rambled on, tugging at Emily’s jacket sleeve.

“Who?” She pulled her arm away when a look of realization suddenly hit her. “...Shit. Shit, this is not good!”

“Not good? This is great! I’m so excited to finally get to see his face in person!” Scottie bounced up and down several times before Emily held the boy in place and shushed him, worried that he would only make John and Sherlock more suspicious of them than they already were.

“Any luck?” a woman’s voice called. Molly entered the room, practically gliding to Sherlock’s side as if he were a magnet or something.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock smiled.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t...” A second newcomer hesitated in the doorway, but despite the clever disguise he wore, Scottie and Emily were far from fooled.

“Jim! Hi!” Molly breathed. “Come in, come in! Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.” Moriarty took his place beside Molly and slipped his hands into his front pockets sheepishly. “Oh, sorry! Um, this is...”

“John Watson. Hi.”

“Yes, and their... adopted... kids? Uh, Scottie, and the girl is Emily, I believe.” Scottie let out a dying whale noise and clung to Emily, who remained stiff and uneasy about being in the consulting criminal’s presence for the first time.

“So you’re Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty said. “Molly’s told me all about--”

“HI SORRY TO BOTHER YOU SIR, BUT I’M SCOTTIE AND I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT IT’S AN HONOR TO FINALLY MEET THE GREAT JIM MO--”

Emily clasped a hand over Scottie’s mouth and tackled him to the ground. “Stop it!” John scolded, pulling both kids apart and helping them to their feet again. “What’s the matter with you two? You’re always embarrassed me, especially in front of people you’ve only just met!”

“Oh, sorry,” Moriarty muttered. “I can just go, if it’s causing any sort of trouble?”

“Not at all,” John promised. “Please, don’t let these two scare you away.”

“I can only imagine what it’s like, having twins.”

John’s face fell. “They’re not mine.”

“Yes we are,” Scottie and Emily insisted.

“Jim works in IT upstairs,” Molly chimed in, attempting to bring the conversation back. “That’s how we met. Office romance.”

“Gay,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. He peered into the microscope before him, displaying little interest in what was happening from the sides.

“Sorry, what?”

“Nothing. Um, hey.” Sherlocked nodded awkwardly towards Moriarty, who smiled.

“Hi.” The criminal mastermind who was currently pretending to be a derpy Sherlock Holmes fanboy suddenly bumped his hip into something and it knocked off the table so that it hit the floor with a crashing sound. Moriarty quickly apologized and began picking it all up again in a fluster. “Well, I’d better be off. I’ll see you at the Fox, about 6-ish?” Moriarty touched Molly’s back and looked back at Sherlock. “Bye. It was nice meeting you.”

“THE PLEASURE’S ALL MINE!” Scottie exclaimed cheerily.

“Excuse him,” Emily said, rolling her eyes. “He has... an odd tendency to blurt out inappropriate things when in contact with attractive British gentlemen at least twice his age.”

Moriarty exited the room. “What do you mean, ‘gay’?” Molly questioned as soon as the door had shut again. “We’re together.”

“And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.”

“...Two and a half.”

“Well, three.”

John pursed his lips together. “Sherlock.”

“He’s not gay!” Molly spat, her voice rising. “Why do you have to spoil... He’s not!”

“With that level of personal grooming?” Sherlock mocked.

“Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?” John made a face. “I put product in my hair.”

“Case in point,” Emily joked.

“You wash your hair,” Sherlock went on, “there’s a difference.”

“No, no, I see where he’s coming from,” Scottie said rather matter-of-factly. “Tinted eyebrows, some kind of cream he uses on his frown lines, but it’s mostly the underwear that gives it away. Quite visible above the waistline, if you ask me, and a recognizable brand. Never mind that he also left Sherlock his number underneath this here dish, because that’s not suggestive at all, nope.” Scottie pulled out the slip of paper and folded it in half. “I’ll just... hold on this in case we...” Emily snatched the paper away, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash bin with a warning glance. “Or, y’know. Not. Whatever floats your boat, man.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “That was... quite good, actually. All valid points.”

Without a word, Molly spun around and stormed out of the room. John sighed. “Charming. Well done, boys.”

Sherlock turned in his seat. “Just saving her time. Isn’t that kinder?”

“Kinder? No, no. Sherlock, that wasn’t kind.”

Sherlock paused. “Emily,” he finally said. Emily looked up, her eyes wide. Sherlock grabbed one of the sneakers by its side and slide it closer on the table. “Your turn. You know what I do; off you go.”

Emily seemed flustered. “W-What, me? No, I, uh... JOHN! You should have John do it. His second opinion seems more valuable.” When Sherlock didn’t let her talk her way out of it, she picked up the thing by its laces and stared at it for a moment, trying to remember what John had concluded in the original episode. But nothing came to her. She put her best effort forth in the task nonetheless: “They’re... I don’t know, normal-looking shoes. Very... shoe-y, with the... bottom shoe bits and, of course, the top shoe bits too. Laces, tongue, sole...” She set the footwear down once more and gave a satisfactory nod. “Yup. I know a lot about shoes, Mr. Holmes, and I can tell you right now that this is definitely a shoe.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, perhaps trying to decide if she was fucking with him or really that stupid. “Did you, I don’t know, happen to notice the remnants of a name written in the tag? Perhaps?”

“Actually, now that you mention it...”

He picked up the shoe and turned it in his hands. “The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened where they got discolored, changed the laces three... no, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema.” He flipped them upside down. “The shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British made, 20 years old.”

“20 years?” John repeated in slight disbelief.

Emily quite literally climbed up onto the counter to get a closer look. “But I was right,” she pressed. “They are most definitely someone’s old shoes, and I’m willing to bet whoever they used to belong to is long since dead.”

Sherlock ignored her, quickly looking something up on his phone. “They’re original, too. Limited edition, two blue stripes, 1989.”

“But there’s still mud on them. They look new,” John said.

“Someone’s kept them that way... Quite a bit of mud on the soles. Analysis shows it’s from Sussex with London mud overlaying it.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock gestured to the desktop. “Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too, so the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex 20 years ago and left them behind.”

“So what happened to him?”

Emily huffed. “Does no one care what I have to say? He’s dead! Deceased! Pushing up the daisies! This... bomber fellow is involved somehow and he wants you to piece together how the murder was done.”

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock realized, straightening his back.

“Sorry, who?”

“Oh yeah, that’s what the guy’s name was,” Scottie recalled. He strode over to Sherlock’s unoccupied side to join in on the conversation. “Sherlock’s first case. More or less. This guy was a champion swimmer from Brighton. One day he drowned and no one thought anything unusual of it, except for Sherlock here, because that’s just kinda what he does. Went and made a big deal about the victim’s shoes having gone missing. Unfortunately he was just a kid at the time and, well, no one really gave a shit about what he had to say. Gee, doesn’t that sound strangely familiar?” Sherlock shot Scottie a distrustful look. “What?” he said defensively. “I’ve done my fair share of reading the papers.”

“From the 80’s?”

“...shhh.”

\---

Later that afternoon the scooby gang was back in 221B and hard at work piecing together Moriarty’s puzzle. Or rather, Sherlock was. He had himself cooped up in the kitchen, leaving the others to twiddle their thumbs and stare at the bullet hole-filled wall in the living room. At some point John ordered pizza, as up until then they’d near forgotten about eating altogether, and Scottie and Emily proceeded to devour half the box by themselves in the amount of time that it had taken John to eat a single slice.

Finally John couldn’t take it any more and slid open the kitchen door to check on Sherlock. “How can I help? I want to help. There’s only five hours left.” His back pocket rang and he pulled out a cell phone. “It’s your brother. He’s texting me now. How does he know my...?”

“It must be a root canal,” Sherlock muttered to himself.

“Look, he did say ‘national importance’,” John resumed, dropping his voice and stepping into the room.

By that point Scottie and Emily could no longer hear their conversation. Emily wiped excess pizza grease off of her fingers with a napkin as they waited patiently until John reentered. “And where are you off to?” she demanded.

“Paying Mycroft Holmes a visit. Don’t worry, I’ll only be a couple of hours.”

Emily leapt to her feet, suddenly getting an idea. “Take us with you!” the girl pleaded. “Sherlock can handle things over here just fine by himself. Meanwhile, Scottie and I can help out with this whole missile crisis!”

John shook his head. “No, no, you’ll just get in the way.”

“Excuse?” Scottie hopped his way over to the others. “It’ll just be Mycroft’s super-secret British government headquarters. Nothing dangerous.”

“And just how many times do we have to save your sorry asses before you figure it out that you’re better off with us nearby?” Emily added. “I mean, take a look at The Blind Banker. We were around for that whole museum shootout scene and everything turned out absolutely fine.”

John squinted at Emily. “Blind what?”

“Blind Banker. Y’know, the case involving the Chinese smugglers... Black Lotus, or whatever they called themselves... You called it that because of that one painting at the bank, remember? No? Doesn’t sound familiar? Oh, joy. I appear to have gotten my storyline mixed up.”

John reflected upon this idea for a moment. “The Blind Banker... I like it. Hey, you mind if I use that for the title of my next blog entry?”

“No, use it, please,” Scottie urged. “That’s just her way of suggesting it to you. Isn’t that right?”

Emily nodded vigorously. “That being said, can we come with?”

“Oh, let me think about - no.” John slammed the door shut behind himself, as if to make a point.

Rude, Emily mouthed. “This is going to be one hell of a long episode if we’re not allowed to do much more than stand around in the background pretending not to know anything.”

“Tell me about it,” Scottie groaned in defeat. “But I mean, it’s not like there’s really anything we can do to change that. Even if we told them the answers, Sherlock and John would a) not believe us or b) think that we’re in league with Moriarty or something.”

“Surprised they don’t already. But hey, what if we could?”

“Could... what?”

“Do something to change that.”

“I don’t think I follow?”

 

Emily rolled her eyes and and pulled Scottie in by his elbow. “C’mon; I’ve got an idea, and it may or may not involve identity theft and a slight break in the fourth wall.”

\---

Just as it had happened in the episode, John returned a little later that night and Sherlock made a post on his website showing that he had solved the case. The next morning the detective and his blogger had gone back to Scotland Yard to debrief with Lestrade, where the teenagers knew they would receive a new challenge from an entirely different hostage. While John and Sherlock were out, Emily and Scottie broke into the doctor’s unguarded room. Emily was busy digging through the older gentleman’s closet while Scottie sat on his bed skeptically.

“So let me get this straight,” he was saying. “You want to prove a point to Sherlock and John by parading around in their clothing and pretending to solve all these cases faster than them?”

“That’s the general idea. I mean, think about it: we have the leg up. We know the answers before Moriarty has even asked their questions. Why shouldn’t we take advantage of that?” She walked out of John’s closet, wearing one of his infamous jumpers. “Moreover, why not take advantage of that and have a little fun while doing it?”

“Because it would only spell out disaster and hilarity?”

“Exactly!” Emily checked herself out in the mirror for a moment before opening up one of John’s drawers and finding a belt to fasten around her waist.

“No offense or anything, but I don’t think John normally wears that as a dress,” Scottie pointed out.

“And it also doesn’t go halfway down his thighs when he puts it on. You got all your stuff?”

“Sherlock already left in his classic coat and scarf, but I managed to find his Purple Shirt of Sex,” Scottie said, holding his arms out to the side for Emily to see. She nodded in satisfaction.

“Perfect. Now, they should be arriving at the crime scene within the next hour or so. Let’s get going!”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

\---

“Oh oh! I think that’s them!” Scottie patted Emily on the leg to get her attention. His partner in crime shut her sketchbook and they both jumped off of the railing they had been seated on. “Quick, look like we’re in the middle of doing Sherlock-y things!”

They did so. Scottie immediately began pacing back and forth across the concrete area and deducing things about the people and objects that he saw, most of which were entirely unrelated to the case at hand (and likely far from correct). Emily followed him from a couple steps behind, occasionally commenting on how brilliant and/or attractive he is.

“Oh, fancy running into you here,” Scottie mused, approaching the car that the others had crowded around.

Sherlock, who had just been inspecting the blood-covered seat in the vehicle, straightened his back and looked from Scottie to Emily, eyebrows scrunched up in disapproval. “I thought you two said you’d stay back at the flat?”

“Boring.” Although it’s true that Scottie wasn’t the best of actors, or even in the better half, he did get credit for refusing to break character. “‘Sides, we heard about this most recent case and figured you might appreciate our help. How long was it you have, exactly? Only eight hours?”

“How could you possibly...?”

“We already spoke with Mrs. Mumferd,” Emily piped up. It suddenly occurred to her that they had no good way of explaining how they had heard of the case in the first place, let alone arrived at that destination before the others. “Just. If you were planning on doing that. You’re welcome.”

“Monkford,” Scottie corrected.

“Gesundheit.”

“What’s going on?” John had joined their circle now and looked as if he were having a difficult time deciding on whether to be confused or angry. “Scottie, Emily, wh... Is that my jumper?”

“What, this old thing?” Emily gave a little twirl. “I mean, I can give it back if you’re that attached to it, but I’ll have you know I didn’t bring anything to change into.”

“But why are you wearing our clothes?”

Emily smirked. “I thought it would be obvious. We’re cosplaying - as you and Sherlock. Figured we’d be able to get your attention this way.”

“Never mind about that,” interrupted Scottie. “Mr. Monkford had been depressed for months. Forgot to renew the tax on his car, which is why he hired one. But that doesn’t matter. The important bit is, Mrs. Monkford was quick to contradict and referred to her husband in past tense the entire time. Now, I’m not saying that she was directly involved his yet, but she knows something and isn’t willing to tell.”

Emily handed a slip of paper over to Sherlock. “Oh, and we found this in the glove compartment. I don’t know, you might find it useful.”

“How did they even let you into the crime scene, again?” John demanded.

“Janus Cars,” Sherlock said, looking at the clue. He looked up at John. “Come on. They managed to find their way here on their own, undoubtedly they can make it back the same way.”

Scottie and Emily watched confidently as John and Sherlock’s figures grew smaller in the distance. “Well done, my dear genderbent Watson,” Scottie finally laughed out loud.

“What are you talking about? That was all you. I couldn’t even remember the woman’s name right!”

They began to file out in the opposite direction. “Don’t worry about it. John’s mostly just there to look cute anyway.”

“So where to now? This is fun.”

\---

“Well, fancy of you lot to show up,” Lestrade grunted, folding his arms. “I was beginning to worry that you’d only sent your interns instead. So, is this true? Mr. Monkford’s in Colombia now and not actually dead?”

Sherlock and John froze dead in their tracks. “How did you find that out?”

Lestrade seemed confused. “Scottie and Emily. Isn’t that why you had them come?”

“Yes... of course,” Sherlock answered slowly. The troublemakers stood at Lestrade’s side, beaming back at him obnoxiously. “It was the blood that gave it away--”

“Half a pint exactly,” Scottie confirmed. “Janus Cars’ first mistake. It was... only too obvious that it had been collected and then frozen to make it look as if he had been murdered, providing the perfect opportunity for Monkford to get away.”

“Bankers,” Emily sighed. “Always such theatrics when it comes to money troubles. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“That’s... that’s impossible...” John stammered. “They didn’t even come to the car place with us! What are you playing at?”

“They’re right, though,” admitted Sherlock. “Mr. Ewart of Janus Cars had a 20,000 Colombian peso note in his wallet, and quite a bit of change, too. He told he us he hadn’t been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm...”

“His arm?” Lestrade echoed.

“He kept scratching it, obviously irritating him and bleeding. Why? Because he’d recently had a booster jab, Hep B, probably. Difficult to tell at a difference. Conclusion--”

“He’d just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford cashed in the paperwork for life insurance and split it with Janus Cars.” Scottie let out a yawn. “I thought we established this bit already?”

“Mrs. Monkford?”

“Oh yes, she’s in on it too.” Sherlock looked to Lestrade expectantly. He was clearly playing along and had no idea how the kids had been able to come to the same conclusion as him without having been around at all, but props to him for not questioning it. “Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That’s what you do best. We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved.”

He and John took their leave down the long hallway without waiting for the others to catch up. Lestrade stared after them for a moment before shaking his head, saying goodbye to Emily and Scottie, and then heading in the opposite direction.

“Wait wait wait,” Scottie gasped. “He didn’t say it! Why didn’t he say it?”

“Say what?”

“The ‘I’m on fire’ line!”

“Huh. You’re right.” Emily bit the bottom of her lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know, think we stepped on his ego a bit?”

\---

The four of them went out to breakfast the following morning. It was a cute little cafe a couple blocks down from Baker Street. Sherlock and John were seated across from one another, Scottie and Emily taking up the remaining chairs and dividing a stack of pancakes amongst themselves. Sherlock was the only one who hadn’t ordered a single thing for himself, but the others were quite used to this behavior on his part. He didn’t eat much in general, but even less so while in the middle of a case.

“Let’s play Fuck, Marry, Kill!” Emily suddenly suggested, sliding her plate back once she’d finished giving Scottie his share. She quite liked that for the most part pancakes there closer resembled crepes than back home.

“Yeah!” seconded Scottie.

John put down his coffee mug. “We aren’t playing Shag, Marry, Kill.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because,” John explained, “someone’s feelings always end up hurt. And even if you don’t use real people it’s still cruel.”

Emily pouted. “We promise we won’t let our feelings get hurt…”

“He’s probably just embarrassed about admitting to suppressed desired with answers about us,” whispered Scottie, intentionally loud enough for everyone at the table to hear.

Sherlock continued to zone out of the conversation, probably still thinking about the whole Moriarty situation. The detective’s eyes shifted to the pink phone that was lying face up in the middle of the table. John, on the other hand, wasn’t so easily above Scottie and Emily’s childish games.

“Fine,” the doctor gave in. “Shag Emily, marry Sherlock, kill Scottie. Happy?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up again but still he said nothing. Emily pursed her lips into a smile and kept eating. Scottie took a sip from his cup and then slammed it down on the table forcefully.

“Wow, okay, asshole. Two can play at this game: fuck Sherlock, marry Emily, kill John.”

“Mine would probably be… fuck Sherlock, marry John, and kill Scottie.” Emily smiled guiltily at Scottie from across the table. “Sorry Scottie.”

Scottie slouched his back into his seat. “Seriously? You’d rather sleep with men old enough to be your father than let me live?”

Emily shrugged. “Wouldn’t you, given those circumstances?”

“Okay, yeah, but I have a gender preference so…”

“See, this is why I didn’t want to play,” sighed John. “It isn’t fun and everyone involved ends up offended.”

“I still want to hear Sherlock’s answer,” commented Emily. “And then I promise we can stop.”

“Oh yeah! Sherlock, tell us yours!”

Sherlock made a face. Evidently the man didn’t appreciate having been pushed to participate. “How about no,” Sherlock replied flatly.

“Aw, come on!” begged Scottie. “Pleaseeee?”

“Marry John, shag John, kill no one,” Sherlock said quickly, looking away. John, who had been in the midst of sipping at his mug, suddenly choked at this and very nearly spit the drink all over the table.

“That isn’t how the game works…” Emily reminded him.

“Good. Because I refuse to play.”

Emily huffed. “Then I refuse to check on your dumb mold cultures while you’re out.”

The girl had quite possibly struck a nerve on that one, because Sherlock narrowed his eyes and revised his previous statement to “Marry John, shag John, kill Emily.”

“Don’t I get a verb?” asked Scottie. “You can’t have John on there twice, y’know.”

“Do science with Scottie?” Sherlock tried. Scottie nodded at this approvingly.

Emily shook her head. “Whatever. Round 2: Lestrade, Anderson, Mycroft. 1 2 3 go!”

“Fuck Lestrade,” Scottie and Emily both said almost immediately.

“I thought you said this would be over after Sherlock answered,” John pointed out.

Sherlock held up a finger. “Question: can I kill at least two of them?”

“Do we need to review the rules of this with you, or…”

“Also why are these all male? Don’t you think that’s a little immature?”

“No one gives a shit except for you,” Emily sang, licking at her fork.

John rolled his eyes and took a bite from his own plate before continuing. “Christ, we’ve hardly stopped for breath since this thing started,” he transitioned. “Has it occurred to you--”

“Probably.”

“--has it occurred to you that the bomber’s playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into Scottie and Emily’s flat, the dead kid’s shoes. It’s all meant for you.”

“Yes. I know.”

John put down his fork. “Is it him then? Moriarty?”

“Mm, that’s a good one too,” Scottie nodded. “Add him to the list.”

“Man, fuck Moriarty. Fuck Moriarty, but like, fuck Moriarty. You feel me?”

Both John and Sherlock turned their heads to the children with suspicion. Emily and Scottie both immediately occupied themselves with sipping at the remainder of their water glasses with straws. But before any questions could arise out of this there was a loud beep that came from the pink phone. Sherlock unlocked it to see that it had just received a text: a picture of blond woman, followed by three beeps. “That could be anybody,” he said.

“It could be. Yeah.” John fidgeted with his jacket some. “Lucky for you, I’ve been more than a little unemployed.”

Sherlock squinted. “How do you mean?”

“Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly.” Standing up, John retrieved a remote from the cafe’s counter and turned on the TV.

Scottie leaned over the table. “I don’t know about you,” he whispered to Emily, “but I’m beginning to question John’s masculinity.”

His friend pulled a strawberry off from the top of her pancakes and ate it. “He isn’t kidding about watching a lot of TV. Just last week I got him to sit through a season and a half of Supernatural.”

While they were talking, the pink phone rang. Sherlock reached for it but Emily swiped it first from next to him. “Hello?” Beat. “Oh. It’s for you.”

She held it out to Sherlock, who swiped the thing away and held it to his ear. “Hello?” There was a pause as he listened to the person on the other line, but unlike in the show, they couldn’t hear the other voice. “Why are you doing this?” John watched Sherlock intently during this time. Sherlock shook his head at him, hung up, and then turned his attention to the TV hanging on the wall somewhere behind them.

“Hey, d’you think they’d let me keep that?” Emily asked, leaning closer to Scottie.

The boy raised an eyebrow. “What? The pink phone?”

“Sure. It’s nicer than the piece of crap I use and as long as Moriarty continues to pay the phone bill…”

Scottie rolled his eyes and sipped at an icy glass of water. “You’re a little shit and you know it.”

On the screen, the blond woman was still being shown. A caption read Make-Over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48 as a reporter’s voice explained that she had been found two days ago by her brother in their house in Hampstead. Sherlock was up and out the door before the others even had a chance to finish their breakfasts.

\---

“I don’t understand,” Scottie was saying. “I thought you said you wanted to solve all the cases before them to prove a point?”

“And we have proved it. Sherlock knows what we’re capable of on our own - the way you knew about the whole Carl Powers thing, and how we beat them to Lestrade with their same conclusion. Any more than that and we’re going to start looking like the bomber ourselves.”

Scottie jumped in front of Emily, cutting her off. “Bullshit. You just don’t want to go in there and see the lady’s dead body.”

“Corpses are icky!” she wailed. “I’ve seen more than enough corpses since I got here. The excitement of it all has started to wear off. Besides, they’re just gonna take a look at her, try to determine an unusual cause of death, and...” Emily trailed off, staring somewhere behind Scottie.

“And...?”

Emily blinked. “Oh! Nothing, I just... Doesn’t that look a lot like Willow?”

Turning to see where Emily was pointing, Scottie became aware of another girl about their age headed in their direction down the sidewalk. Spotting them, she stopped abruptly and looked up before spinning around again and continuing back the way she came. “I think that is Willow!” Scottie exclaimed, chasing after her. “Willow! Willow!”

For the first time Willow fell victim to a real-life glomping by not one, but two people she had previously only met on the other end of a computer screen. “It is you!” Emily squealed excitedly. “I can’t believe I’m finally getting getting to meet another AANer!” She let go, as if suddenly remember that her internet friend still needed oxygen to function properly. “But, I don’t understand. What are you doing here?”

Willow struggled for words. “I... It’s a long story, to perfectly honest, but I’m so happy to finally see you two in person! You look great! Except... I don’t know, I kind of expected you both to be a little... well, taller, I guess? Especially you, Scottie. Emily’s got a good couple of inches on you.”

Scottie frowned. Willow was a good head taller than the both of them. “Well excuuuse me, Miss Friendly Giant!”

“So now do you believe us about this whole ‘being stuck in the Sherlock universe’ ordeal?”

“I still don’t know how you shits did it, but I always believed you,” Willow said.

“Hold up!” Scottie interrupted. “We were talking with you on Tinychat just last night! You couldn’t possibly have been back in the States one night and then the next morning woken up in a shady hotel room in the middle of London, unless... you went to bed back home one night and woke up in a shady hotel room in the middle of London the next morning, just like us! Oh, this is great news!” Scottie clung to Willow again.

Willow smiled weakly and shoved him off of her. “Yeah, yeah. Something like that. Now calm your tits before I have to file a restraining order against you two.”

“Oh, just wait until you meet Sherlock and John! You’re going to love them! I bet you can even stay with us in 221C, too. I’m sure they won’t mind. Then we can solve cases together and who knows, if we’re here and you’re here, maybe the rest of And Another Note will show up at some point and--”

Scottie stopped when he heard his and Emily’s names being called. The both of them looked up to see their group exiting the building. John waved his arm, signalling to them to come along. But when they looked back, Willow was gone.

“W-What?” Emily stammered. “I don’t understand. She was literally just here! We... did see her, right? We’re not going crazy?”

Scottie shrugged. “Maybe she just needs some time to settle in? The good news is, we now know she’s here and knows our address if she wants to come find us again.”

“I don’t like this,” Emily admitted, starting to walk towards Sherlock, John, and Lestrade again. “There was just something... I don’t know, off about her. And then the way she just went and disappeared like that.”

“You’re absolutely right. She knows too much.” Scottie squinted his eyes with a look of determination. “We should kill her.”

Emily smacked him square in the chest with the back of her hand. “Quit fucking around and take this seriously! I just… I don’t know. It’s like my spidey senses are tingling, you feel?”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Shush. I just get this weird feeling that we can’t trust her. I can’t explain it.”

“Well, no wonder she left. You’re just gonna go around shouting out uncalled for accusations like that...”

“Oh, piss off!”

\---

Back in 221B, Sherlock had plastered pictures of Connie Prince and other various bits and pieces of information regarding the previous two cases up on the wall. John and Emily had split off from the group, going to the house in Hampstead to investigate. Meanwhile Sherlock paced back and forth across the flat, hands pressed together as Lestrade watched impatiently.

“Connection, connection...” he was mumbling. “There’s got to be a connection! Carl Powers, killed 20 years ago. The bomber knew him, admitted that he knew him! The bomber’s iPhone was in the stationary from the Czech Republic. The first hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent.” Sherlock flailed his arms about in irritation. “What’s he doing? Working his way around the world? Showing off?”

Sherlock’s phone rang again. This time he put it on speakerphone so that Lestrade could hear as well.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” an older woman’s voice asked. “Joining the dots? Three hours. Boom... boom.” The phone cut to a dial tone and Sherlock hung up.

“Well that wasn’t morbid at all,” Scottie said from where he had melted himself into the couch.

Mrs. Hudson let herself in several minutes later and Sherlock went to take a call at the other end of the living room. “It’s a real shame,” the landlady sighed, scanning her eyes across the wall sadly. “I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors.”

Lestrade looked down at her, an eyebrow raised. “Colors?”

“You know! What goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me.” Scottie wrinkled his nose at the thought of Mrs. Hudson in as atrocious a shade of pink as that.

“Who’s that?” Lestrade asked Sherlock when he rejoined them.

“Home Office.”

“Home Office?”

“Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favor.”

Mrs. Hudson kept her eyes fixed on the makeshift board. “A pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It’s silly, isn’t it? Did you ever see her show?”

“Not until now,” Lestrade shook his head.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, smiling. He fetched his laptop from the table somewhere behind him and opened it up to play a video.

“That’s the brother,” Mrs. Hudson explained, leaning over to see. “No lost love there, if you can believe the papers.”

“So I gather. I’ve just been having a very fruitful chat with people who love this show. Fan sites, indispensable for gossip...” Sherlock informed her. Scottie, clearly bored out of his mind, let out an exasperated sigh and flopped off of the furniture and onto the floor. “Sorry, is there some place you’d rather be?”

“You’ve no idea.”

\---

Emily wasn’t getting a lot of anything done herself, either. She’d mostly resorted to taking up an armchair in Kenny Prince’s living room and stroking his cat, which closer resembled a hairless rat than a feline, if we’re being perfectly honest here. Connie’s brother Kenny sat down beside John on a nearby couch, crossing his legs and ultimately making him feel extremely uncomfortable.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do now,” Kenny said.

“Right.”

“I mean, she’s left me this place, which is lovely... but it’s not the same without her.”

John made a face, leaning back. “T-That’s why my paper wanted to get the full story. Straight from the, uh, the horse’s mouth. You sure it’s not too soon?”

“No!”

“Right.”

“You fire away.”

Emily tried to keep from throwing up in her mouth. Things went on like this for some time more after John quickly phoned Sherlock to tell him about his newest lead. Although she knew the man was barking up the wrong tree, Emily said nothing and continued to play with the cat... thing until there was a knock at the door.

“That’ll be him,” John said.

Kenny looked up from fixing his hair in a mirror. “What?”

“Ah, Mr. Prince, is it?” Sherlock strode into the room, reaching out to shake Kenny’s hand.

“Yes?”

“Very good to meet you.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock didn’t stop shaking the gentleman’s hand. “So sorry to hear about--”

“Yes, yes, very kind. Shall we, uh...”

Sherlock let go then and leaned in close to John. “You were right; the bacteria got into her another way.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Right, we all set?” Kenny clasped his hands together in anticipation before posing by the fireplace.

“Draw me like one of your French girls,” Emily said from beside John. Without looking he attempted to put an arm on her shoulder while shushing her, but missed and ended up touching the girl’s face. Emily licked it and he pulled away in disgust.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had begun snapping pictures like rapidfire. “Not too close,” Kenny instructed. “I’m raw from crying.” This request was, of course, completely and utterly ignored.

The naked cat yowled and rubbed up against Sherlock’s leg. “Oh? Who’s this?”

“Sehkmet. Named after the Egyptian goddess.”

“How nice. Was she... Connie’s?”

“Yes. Little present from yours truly.” Kenny bent down to pick up the hairless animal.

“Sherlock, ah, light reading?” John asked.

“Oh, uh...” Sherlock frowned down at the bulky camera in his hands. He proceeded to flash it directly into Kenny Prince’s face several times more.

Kenny blinked and jerked about, shouting, “Bloody hell, why are you looking there?”

“Sorry!”

“You’re like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you two! What’s going on?”

John nodded his head towards the door. “Actually, I think we’ve got what we came for. Excuse us.”

“What?”

“Sherlock! Emily!”

“What?”

“We’ve got deadlines.”

Sherlock and Emily scurried after him. Kenny stared after them in surprise and anger. “But you’ve not taken anything!”

Just outside, they were rejoined by Scottie, who had been waiting patiently alongside the exterior of the house. And by that I mean hiding in the bushes and waiting to pop out and them. As soon as Emily came around the corner from the front porch, he reached out and grabbed her ankle. Emily shrieked and instinctively kicked him in the face.

"Ouch!" Scottie yelped, picking himself up again.

"Serves you right, giving me a heart attack like that."

"It's a good thing we were transported into the Sherlock verse rather than Amnesia’s. You'd get us both killed trying to fight back."

"Yes, oh, yes!" John was saying from several feet ahead of them. He laughed out loud. 

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You thought it was the cat? It wasn’t the cat.”

“Wh... Yes, it is! It must be! That’s how he got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant.”

“Lovely idea.” Sherlock looked as if he were trying not to laugh himself.

“He coated it onto the claws of the cat,” he explained. “New pet. Bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn’t have...”

“It’s alright, John,” Scottie said, patting the doctor on his back reassuringly. “We can’t all be genius detectives.”

John made a face. “Oh, and I don’t suppose you have any bright ideas?”

“As a matter of fact, I do! You’re assuming Mr. Prince murdered his sister for her money, am I right or am I right? Of course I am; I’m always right.” Scottie paused, checking to make sure that the others were paying attention to him. “Well, isn’t it obvious? It was revenge! By Raoul! There was this whole campaigning dispute between the two of them - I don’t remember the specifics, but you can ask Sherlock, he actually read the articles online - anyway, Connie threatened to disinherit Kenny and--”

“Wait, wait, wait a second!” John stepped in front of Sherlock and John, causing them to stop walking. Emily was a little late on the uptake collided into Sherlock’s backside. “What about the disinfectant, then? On the cat’s claws?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant!” Emily sniffed her own hands at this observation. “No, the cat doesn’t come into it. Raoul’s internet records do, though. I hope we can get a cab from here,” Sherlock said, mostly to himself. He then continued walking down the very middle of the street while John remained where he stood, likely trying to keep from feeling too embarrassed.

Scottie patted his arm again on his way past. “Next time,” he cooed.

\---

The following morning, Sherlock and John were seating in their respective armchairs whilst watching the news on TV. The newscaster was going on about how twelve people were killed in a gas explosion.

“Old block of flats,” John muttered over his shoulder at Sherlock. “He certainly gets about.”

“Well, obviously I lost that round - although technically I did solve the case.” Sherlock picked up the remote control and muted it. “He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line.”

John frowned. “What d’you mean?”

“What’s there not to get?” Emily laughed. She walked into the room from the kitchen carrying a can of soda and settled down on the opposite end of the couch from Scottie. “This bomber fellow, whoever he might be and whom I’m absolutely positive not a single one of us has ever encountered before,” she gave Scottie a warning glance as she said this, “is kind of like a crime spree prostitute.”

“A what?” John choked.

“Criminal for hire,” clarified Scottie.

“Say, are you two planning on adopting a puppy anytime soon?” Emily asked, sipping at her drink. “Because honestly I’ve been waiting years for that one and I still can’t believe it hasn’t happened yet.”

“Casual reminder that we haven’t technically known them for a full year.”

Sherlock watched the pink phone that was seated beside him intently. “Taking his time this time.” The cellphone went off just then, and Sherlock pursed his lips into a thin smile. “Speak of the devil.” John leaned forward and watched intently as the other man flipped in open. Sherlock’s face fell. “Your dragons have finished mating,” he read.

“Oh! That notification’s for me!” Emily let out, jumping to her feet.

Scottie raised an eyebrow at the girl. “When the hell did you have time to install minigame apps onto crucial evidence?”

Giving Emily a judgemental glare, Sherlock closed the notification and set the thing down again. Emily continued to stand awkwardly for another couple seconds before sinking back down onto the couch. There was a brief pause and John looked back towards the muted TV set. “Anything on the Carl Powers case?”

“Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection.”

“Good God, this scene sucks!” Scottie finally blurted out. “I keep forgetting how boring everything is between cases.”

“Maybe the killer was older than Carl?” John went on, ignoring the boy.

“The thought had occurred.”

“So why’s he doing this, then - playing this game with you? D’you think he wants to be caught?”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth and smiled slightly. “I think he wants to be distracted.”

John laughed humorlessly just before getting out of his seat and making towards the kitchen. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

“Oh!” Emily waved her empty soda can in the air as if showing off the fact that it was now empty. “While you’re already up, mind fetching me another one of these?”

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock shot back over the girl.

His temper rising, John turned back and leaned his hands on the back of the chair. “There are lives at stake, Sherlock!” he hissed. “Actual human lives… Just - just so I know, do you care about that at--” The man was cut off when the aluminum can that had just been chucked made contact and bounced off of the side of his face. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!” he spat, whirling around.

Emily and Scottie both threw an accusatory finger at one another. “Caring won’t get me another soda,” Emily whispered. Scottie tried his best to hold back laughter.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.” There was a long and tense silence between the four people in the room and then the pink phone received a text, signified by the Kim Possible message tone. Scottie raised an eyebrow at Emily, who grinned guiltily. “Excellent!” breathed Sherlock, picking it up. There was a quick beeping noise and a picture that only Sherlock could see. “View of the Thames. South Bank - somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers, I’ll look online,” he said, reaching for his own phone. He glanced up again at John. “Oh, you’re angry with me, so you won’t help.” John shrugged. “Not much cop, this caring lark.”

Emily huffed. “Man, y’all are useless. I guess I’ll just go get one myself.” She stood up and pushed past John.

“And I’ll… casually go back to reading fanfiction, I guess,” Scottie mumbled half to himself. “If anyone cares. No? Okay.”

John scanned his eyes over a newspaper. “Archway suicide,” he said.

“Ten a penny,” snapped Sherlock.

“Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington.”

“Oh my god, this one is like Smaug has the personality of Martin Crieff and he’s all insecure and trying to convince Bilbo that he’s a terrifying dragon and oh my god this is great,” Scottie wheezed. “Are half of these even for real?”

There was an exaggerated gasp from in front of the fridge. “How could that have been the last one?”

John moved along to the next paper. “Ah,” he began, “man found on the train line - Andrew West.”

Sherlock gave his phone a judgemental look. “Nothing!”

“Wait wait wait, I’ve got something!” Scottie exclaimed, sitting upright. Both Sherlock and John stopped what they were doing and looked over at him. “Emily, come quick!” he went on. “This one’s a crossover between Star Trek and…” he stopped, glancing up. “Oh hello everyone.”

Sherlock shook his head and began making a call: “It’s me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?”

\---

Apparently Lestrade had, and the group joined him beside a river less than an hour later. They were standing over a man’s body and currently discussing whether or not this event was connected to the mysterious bomber.

“Any ideas?” pressed the Detective Inspector.

“Seven… so far…”

“Seven?”

Sherlock and John dance around each other inspecting the corpse. Emily began tapping her foot impatiently while Scottie pulled back a sleeve to glance impatiently at his watchless wrist. “He’s been dead for about twenty four hours,” John finally piped up. “Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?”

“Apparently not,” Lestrade commented. “Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.”

Emily nudged Scottie with her elbow. “Hey, I’m bored out of my fucking mind here. It’s like being Richard Castle minus the witty theories and sexual tension.”

Scottie blinked. “I didn’t understand that reference but go on.”

“Do you want to, I don’t know, go see a movie or something?” The girl dropped her voice to a near whisper as to not be heard over the crime scene-related discussion still going on nearby. “They obviously don’t need us here, not to mention I have little to no faith in our combined ability to take on the Golem creature.”

Scottie squinted. “Since when have you been so worried about getting someone hurt by being in the way?”

“Oh, I don’t know, since we nearly got shot full of bullet holes in a museum? We aren’t invincible, you know.”

“Touche.”

\---

Scottie and Emily successfully avoided causing any unnecessary trouble in seeing that movie, and despite it not even being that good of a film, for the first time in a long time the couple of teenagers wandered the streets of London together, taking in the sights like overexcited tourists. They laughed at and cheered for street performers, took a stroll through the park, and got kicked out of a pub for being underage. It was nearly 2 AM when the kids made it back to Baker Street with sore feet and the last of John’s stolen pocket money spent. It was then that they realized they hadn’t brought along a copy of the apartment key, but luckily their excessive banging was enough to wake Mrs. Hudson, who unhappily helped them into their own flat. They overslept the following morning, and as such ended up missing Sherlock and John’s departure for the art gallery.

“How could we let this happen!” Scottie wailed, throwing himself back down upon his bed face first.

Emily sat at the edge of her own bed painting her toenails. “Hey, I’ve been up since ten,” the girl said in defense of herself.

Scottie lifted his eyes to glare at her. “Yeah, that’s because you crashed the second we go back, whereas I stayed up to check in with And Another Note.”

“It was like, midday then. Weren’t they all in school?”

“It had already ended for some of them,” answered Scottie. “Various US time zones and all that fun stuff.”

“Was Willow on?”

“No.”

“Weird. I wonder what’s going on with her. I mean, I don’t think that was a shared delusion we experienced the other day, and so of course I’m worried about her and how she’s holding up. I don’t know. There’s just something fishy about the whole thing and I don’t like it. But that being said, there isn’t really anything we can be expected to do about it until she ever decides to pop up again.” Emily shrugged. “Anyway, we aren’t missing much by staying here. If they’re on the art gallery case right now, shouldn’t they just be proving that that Vermeer is a fake?”

“Yeah, and then wrapping up the case John has been working on for Mycroft,” Scottie whined. “I can’t decide which is worse: getting dragged along on all the boring bits of the detective work or being left behind on all of them!” Scottie jolted upright with a gasp, startling Emily so that her hand jerked to the side and nail polish across the side of her face. She shot Scottie a dagger-like glare, which he seemed not to notice in his own excitement. “The pool scene happens tonight, too!”

Their conversation was cut off when Mrs. Hudson let herself into the room carrying a tray with two homemade sandwiches. “You two are just like Sherlock,” the older woman sighed. “Always so wrapped up in your own affairs and forgetting to take care of yourselves in the process. It’s past noon and the two of you haven’t even eaten breakfast yet! Aren’t you starving?”

“Oh, positively ravished,” Emily let out, reaching for one of the sandwiches.

Mrs. Hudson handed the second one to Scottie who took it happily. “Now what do you say, dears?”

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson!” they both exclaimed through full mouths.

“Now you kids keep out of trouble, you hear?” Their landlady half-smiled, shaking her head. They promised to do so (with very little intentions to keep said promise) and waited until the woman had disappeared into the hall again before picking up their talk.

“I just don’t see how it’s going to work out,” Emily said, taking another bite. “Sherlock sure as hell isn’t going to let us come with, and if we hang out with John instead, what if we end up strapped to bombs of our own?”

Scottie wrinkled his nose. “For all you know sitting around here will end up getting us grabbed instead of John. Again. Also, have I mentioned, it’s the pool scene we’re talking about! With the snipers and Moriarty and “is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just happy to see me” and oh sweet Jesus what if we actually get to see what Sebastian Moran looks like!”

Emily just shook her head in disbelief - partially because Scottie did make a valid point of them being possibly screwed over no matter what course they took, but also because not even she expected him to remember the exact gun type in the quote. When she didn’t appear to have anything to add on the topic, Scottie sighed in defeat. He continued to eat his sandwich in silence for another minute or so before a strange idea occurred to him. Scottie swallowed. “Hey, Em?”

“Oh dear. I’m only ‘Em’ when you’re about to suggest something particularly reckless.”

“What if we got there first? You know, before Sherlock sends out that text so that Moriarty won’t have sent his guys after John and/or us yet, but also so that he can’t stop us because we’ll already be there.”

Emily hesitated, looking at Scottie long and hard before responding. “I’m listening.”

\---

“Ouch!” Scottie hissed. “Stop elbowing me with your shoulder!”

“Shhh!” Emily hissed back. “Trying to fit the both of us into one of these tiny rooms was your dumb idea!”

“No, I said we’d hide out in the changing rooms. You’re the one who squeezed in here with me.”

“Well fine, if I’m not wanted here maybe I’ll go find my own changing room!”

“Good! Do that!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

The two of them were crouching on top of a chair that they’d dragged into the little room so that no one who came in would see their feet under the wood panels, and a red curtain blocked their view of the Bristol South Swimming Pool. Emily had only started to shift when she heard a door being pushed open. Both teenagers froze, tensing up. After about a second the thing shut itself, which echoed throughout the near empty building, there were footsteps growing closer to where they were squished up next to each other and Emily checked her phone to see that it was exactly midnight. That must be Sherlock, then, which struck her as weird because neither of them recalled hearing John having been brought in. Emily started to lean forward, hoping to see if John’s feet were visible in one of the stalls alongside theirs, but Scottie pulled her back.

Luckily for them Sherlock had yet to discover the teenagers’ presence, as they heard him begin the scene as scheduled: “Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance - all to distract me from this.”

There was a long pause before a second pair of footsteps could be heard. They stopped again. “Evening,” went John’s voice. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

Scottie looked as if he were about to cry and it took all of his energy to keep from making a peep. To the untrained eye this may’ve looked like a gesture of fear, but Emily know all too well that her friend had gone into fangirling mode. She just hoped to God he didn’t fuck everything up with it.

Sherlock’s voice was quieter now. “John. What the hell...?”

“Bet you never saw this coming.” A couple more footsteps and then a pause. “What… would you like me… to make him say… next?” Moriarty’s playing around with John like a puppet was so much harder to listen to in person. “Gottle o’ geer… gottle o’ geer… gottle o’ geer…” John’s voice almost broke in that moment, and Emily cupped her hand over her mouth to ensure her own silence.

“Stop it,” demanded Sherlock.

“Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”

“Who are you?” Oh, God, he even sounded more desperate just from being in the same room. And then a door at the other end of the pool could be heard opening. Scottie grabbed onto Emily’s arm in anticipation, very nearly cutting off its circulation, but she said nothing.

“I gave you my number,” Moriarty’s creepy and yet unnervingly soothing voice rang out. “I thought you might call.” They held their breaths as the man came closer. “Is that British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket… or are you just pleased to see me?”

“Both.”

“Jim Moriarty. Hi!” Beat. “Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point. Don’t be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” Moriarty’s voice came even closer the next time he spoke. “I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see… Like you!”

You could just about hear the sneering in Sherlock’s voice. “Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister? Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?”

“Just so.”

“Consulting criminal. Brilliant.”

There was a strange mix of emotions bubbling up in Emily. None of the previous Sherlock experiences she was gifted with felt half as real or intense as this one. Not even when she and Scottie had first met Sherlock and John, or when they were being shot at or ran into Moriarty for the first time. She was somehow both unbelievably scared and happy at the exact same time. Emily glanced up at Scottie to see if his face, which could only be partially seen through thin strips of light that came in through the locker, conveyed a similar interpretation. Rather, the boy looked as if he were fighting back a sneeze.

“Isn’t it? No one ever gets to me…” Moriarty went on, “and no one ever will.”

Don’t you fucking dare, Emily mouthed.

There was the sound of Sherlock cocking his pistol. “I did.”

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.”

“Ah-CHOO!”

There was a very long silence. Scottie rubbed at the bottom of his nose. “Sorry,” he whispered back. Mere moments later their curtain was pulled open. Scottie and Emily looked up, wide-eyed, to see none other than Moriarty standing across from them.

“Carry on like we were never here?” Scottie tried weakly.

A slight chuckle came from the man. “Well don’t be shy now,” he purred. “You made your bed. Now lie in it.”

Moriarty backed up, giving the two of them room to step out from their hiding place uneasily. Now they could see Sherlock, who stared back at them with a horrified look about him. The gentleman seemed at a loss for words. John looked away with a mixed expression of fear, anger, and sympathy. They guessed he’d heard them earlier and knew they were there but, of course, said nothing to give them away. When no one else spoke, Moriarty slowly erupted into a fit of laughter.

Several more uneasy seconds ticked by and the consulting criminal calmed down, wiping a tear away from his eye. “Oh, this is just too good,” he exhaled. “I can see why you like having them around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. I would’ve assumed you had these two on a much tighter leash.” Two little red dots slowly shifted to where Scottie and Emily were standing. Scottie threw up a middle finger in the direction the laser sights were coming from, and Emily slapped his hand back down.

Sherlock lowered his gun somewhat. “Believe me when I say I didn’t know about this. Please. They don’t know anything. Leave them out of this.”

“Oh dear. You aren’t perhaps slipping, are you?” Moriarty chuckled to himself. “I have one of my own, you know. And unexpected addition to the family, if you will. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

“I don’t know what you expect me to think,” Sherlock said bitterly.

“Would you like to meet her?” Moriarty asked. He stepped to the side. “You can come out now, Willow dear. The other grown-ups are almost dying to get to know you.” The pool’s side door opened slowly, and a girl of about Scottie and Emily’s age took a couple steps inside but said nothing.

“Willow!” Emily gasped, taking a step forward.

“Don’t,” warned Scottie. He grabbed onto the edge of her sleeve just to be safe.

“Oh? So she is a friend of yours? This just keeps getting better and better. Wouldn’t you agree, Sherlock?”

“Take it,” Sherlock said, attempting to change the topic by taking out the flashdrive and holding it into the air and then tossing it underhand to where Moriarty was standing.

Moriarty caught it effortlessly. “Huh? Oh! That! The missile plans! Boring! I could have gotten them anywhere.” He tossed the thing into the pool, and there was a splash as it hit the water’s surface.

“John can’t launch himself at Moriarty,” Scottie whispered urgently.

“Huh?” Emily shot back.

“We’re standing in between the two of them. There’s no way this can play out exactly the same now.”

Emily took a deep breath. Scottie was right. But they were in too far now to try and put the show back on its original course. “Let her go,” Emily demanded.

“What the hell are you doing?” Scottie hissed, pulling tighter on the girl’s sleeve.

Moriarty blinked. “Pardon?”

“I said let her go,” repeated Emily. “Willow’s our friend, not one of your lackeys. She belongs with us, not… running around doing your errands.”

“Your friend?” Moriarty mused. “If she was your friend, why do you think she would choose to spend her days with me? I don’t normally enjoy the company of other people, but Willow here made quite the intern. Relaying messages, keeping tabs… She could be the one holding the sniper rifle right now. All I’d have to do is say ‘please’. Is that the kind of friend you prefer to keep? One who will shoot you down at a simple command?” Willow looked away, avoiding the eyes of her fellow internet buddies.

“Shut up.”

“Emily,” Sherlock warned, slowly starting to lift his weapon again.

“I said shut up, both of you! I know Willow, and she would never do any of that! She’s a good person, and you’re nothing but a murderous psychopath and a liar!”

“Oh, I don’t lie, Princess. You ought to know that. But I do applaud your nerve, standing up to me and Daddy like that, I really do. It’s only too bad he doesn’t appreciate you for it.”

“How do you mean?” Emily asked, her voice softer now.

“Well, isn’t it obvious? Sherlock thinks you’re worthless. They both do, really. Of course, you can never expect them to admit it, but that’s men for you. Your little friend there… perhaps he’s the only one here who truly cares. But then again, he’s in the same boat as you are. Always getting in the way, slowing them down… Sherlock Holmes isn’t your babysitter. He doesn’t have time to play games with children.”

“He played games for you,” Scottie said under his breath.

“Stop it,” Sherlock demanded, gun still fixed on the consulting criminal. “Don’t listen to him, Emily. Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t even breathe - that goes for the both of you.”

“Ooh, and how does that feel, Princess?” Moriarty mocked. “Ordered around like Sherlock’s plaything.”

“You heard the man,” Emily choked. “He said stop it.”

Moriarty pulled his lips back into a crooked smile. “Make me,” he taunted.

Without warning the girl suddenly leapt forward, ripping out of Scottie’s grasp. “Emily!” several distressed voices called after her, but it was too late. Emily only just heard the sound of a gunshot before everything went black.


	4. A Scandal in Derping

Emily awoke to a steady beeping noise. Although rather disoriented at first, after several minutes she was able to successfully deduce that a) she was lying on a hospital bed, b) she had been drugged to the point of not feeling a single thing below her waist, and c) a boy almost her exact same age had fallen asleep in a rolling stool beside her bed, bent forward with his face planted firmly on the mattress.

“Scottie?” she croaked, her voice weak. Emily cleared her throat and tried again. “Scottie?” When her friend still didn’t answer, she tried kicking at him, but couldn’t seem to get her leg to move. Now growing frustrated, Emily pulled out the pillow from behind her and smacked it over his head.

“IT WASN’T MY FAULT!” Scottie yelled, popping up. “THEY MADE ME DO IT, I--” He stopped suddenly, blinked, and only then seemed to notice the girl’s consciousness. “Emily!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Oh, thank God! I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up!” For half a second Scottie looked like he was going to hug Emily, but quickly realized that would be difficult given the circumstances. Recognizing this, Emily forced herself upright anyway so that he could go through with the action. Once satisfied, Scottie sat back down again.

“What even happened back there?” Emily asked, admittedly surprised that she was still alive.

“You made to charge at the world’s only known consulting criminal and miraculously lived to tell the tale,” a baritone voice said from the doorway. Both teenagers glanced up to see Sherlock and John standing there with obvious looks of relief.

Emily shrugged. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised. But your little act of stupidity aside,” Sherlock went on, coming closer, “everyone else managed to get away unscathed. Jim Moriarty received a phone call at a most opportune moment and ordered his dogs to stand down. John applied pressure to your wound and thankfully the ambulance arrived before you had time to bleed out.”

“Oh, good; still on schedule.”

“It’s too bad Willow went back with him,” Scottie muttered half to himself. “The whole situation has given us a blind spot. Plus I have, like, a million and one things to ask about our favorite consulting criminal and the questionable relationship with his sniper buddy!”

“And I’ve already spoken to Scottie, but your half of the discussion on why you two aren’t allowed to intervene on rather pressing life and death situations is still pending,” Sherlock threatened.

“Yeah, yeah. Looking forward to it.”

“How are you feeling?” asked John. “Pain-wise, I mean.”

Emily shrugged yet again. “Fine. Can’t feel much of anything, actually. But that’s good, right?” The girl remembered something then and began laughing softly to herself. Sherlock and John exchanged slightly confused glances.

Scottie frowned. “What?” he demanded. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” chuckled Emily. “It’s just… Well, you know how we were cosplaying as Sherlock and John earlier this week?”

“Yeah…?”

“Well, now John and I really are twinning. We both got shot!” She then erupted into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, to which the rest of the room seemed to have little to say. After several seconds the laughing died down again and Emily’s face fell. “What? Too soon?”

\---

A couple days passed before Emily was allowed to leave the hospital, at which point she was advised to refrain from walking anywhere for up to a week. This would have been near impossible for her, except that John seemed willing enough to fetch anything for her anyway. Well, near anything - Emily rather quickly got into the habit of testing out to what ridiculous extent he was willing to pamper her, and that ranged anywhere from bringing over something just out of reach to giving piggyback rides up and down the stairs to tucking her into bed so that the blanket wrapped perfectly around her legs like a fuzzy burrito. More time passed, and soon enough the girl was good as new and more than eager to show off the ‘battle scar’ on her calf.

Ever since Moriarty had slunk back into the shadows, things continued on as usual at Baker Street. By May the kids had been there for about a year now, and since they hadn’t been booted out onto the streets yet, chances were they never would be. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months, and Sherlock and co. had gotten well into the habit of meeting with various clients: a woman suspicious of her husband and vice versa, an old fellow convinced that his aunt’s ashes have been swapped out, a businessman who had important files stolen from him, so on and so forth.

John started to get some internet fame for his blog’s retelling of cases such as “The Geek Interpreter” and “The Speckled Blonde” (and every so often this was hacked with fanfiction cases, only some of which were ever discovered and taken down). Sherlock seemed to dislike this attention for the most part, but that only encouraged his blogger. Scottie and Emily kept themselves busy in the usual ways, not going to school and instead goofing around at crime scenes the majority of the time.

September rolled around, and with it their birthdays. Mrs. Hudson helped John throw the two of them a combined party halfway through the month, much at Emily’s urging and to Scottie’s annoyance. Although the add-ins to the TV show were sixteen the night before they woke up in that hotel room, after extensive research and cross-checking with various calendars Scottie was convinced that there had been a slight time jump in getting there that caused them both to miss their seventeenth birthdays, and as such, they were actually turning eighteen. Of course they were unable to fully explain this to anyone else, but no one appeared to actually remember their ages in the first place and they weren’t questioned on it. It’s also worth mentioning that as a birthday present Emily received the replica pink phone that had been used in the events of The Great Game, which they since had refurbished to dispel any possibility of Moriarty being able to tap into the device and upon which she had given Scottie her old “primitive” phone in an attempt to pass it off as her own gift to him. Scottie also got a new copy of the Sims, which he immediately set to work on using to recreate 221B Baker Street and its residents.

Not all that long afterwards and on a day like any other (which admittedly isn’t saying much), Sherlock had picked up a client who told him a story about the dead man he found by a river in the country while in the midst of car troubles. The following morning the detective sent John in his place to have a look at it, and some time later Emily and Scottie were reentering the flat when they practically collided with Mrs. Hudson.

“And where’ve you two been so early in the morning?” she questioned.

“Driving!” Emily said happily. “I went and got myself a permit last week, remember? Molly’s teaching me, since she seems to be the only willing person around here who actually owns a car. Which is kind of ridiculous if you ask me, because I’m fairly certain that the price of gas has got nothing on the taxi fares Sherlock and John have fallen victim to.”

“Still don’t know how you did it,” Scottie rolled his eyes. “She failed the damn thing. Actually failed it, and yet the lady handed over a learner’s permit anyway. Can you believe that? It’s ridiculous!”

“Oh, shut up. Everyone’s backwards from what I’m used to here. And in my defense, the test is even harder and less lenient if you’re not a minor. Or have proper documentation...”

“Well, you be careful, alright?” Mrs. Hudson said. “Way too many accidents are caused by youngsters such as yourselves being careless.”

“Of course,” Emily smiled.

“Always are!” Scottie chimed in cheerily.

After saying goodbye to Mrs. Hudson the crime observing duo came upstairs to find the great Sherlock Holmes in the middle of a video conference in a white bedsheet. Scottie let out a high-pitched inhuman screech and Emily briefly wondered if this was because he knew where they were in the show’s timeline again or because he knew exactly what Sherlock was (or, y’know, wasn’t) wearing underneath that thing of cloth.

“Excited to see me as ever, I see,” the man droned with a glance over his shoulder as they came in.

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re naked underneath that,” Emily said. For some reason the whole predicament was a lot more awkward when she was in the same room as it.

“Of course. Everyone’s naked underneath.”

Scottie snorted. “Nobody move, I’m gonna go grab a bedsheet too!”

“Oh no you don’t, you little shit!” Emily called after her friend, but he was already halfway back down the stairwell. She chased after him, and by the time she’d reached their own flat Scottie had already changed into a bedsheet toga that he had fashioned himself. Emily pinched at the bridge of her nose. “I’m surrounded by children,” she groaned.

“Says the girl who flipped over the Game of Life board and yelled ‘earthquake’ when she realized someone was about to win in the next turn and it wasn’t her,” Scottie snickered.

Emily wrinkled her nose. “Fine. You want me to join in on this idiotic barely clothed part, then that’s exactly what I’ll do!” Scottie was, of course, wearing clothing under his his own sheet, but Emily didn’t know this. Regardless, Emily proceeded to dig through her half of the closet, disappear into the bathroom, and then return a couple minutes later with her own interpretation of the dress code.

“Oh, come on,” Scottie rolled his eyes. “A bikini? Really? And you aren’t even covered in a giant while blanket! That’s cheating!”

“It isn’t cheating, you uncultured swine. It’s called playing by my own rules.”

“Slytherin,” Scottie muttered under his breath.

They stepped out of their own flat when the front doorbell rang. Scottie and Emily looked towards the door, then promptly ignored it. When the two of them reentered 221B, Emily suddenly realized that it was far too cold to be walking around the flat in nothing but a swimsuit and, without asking, pulled Sherlock’s coat down from where it was hanging and covered herself with it.

“What’s in the stream?” a man’s voice came from the computer.

“Go and see.”

There was a rustling of the laptop behind handed back to John. Sherlock waited patiently and sipped at a mug of tea. Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs then, two suit-clad men standing behind her. “Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called out as she stepped into the living room. “You weren’t answering the doorbell.”

One of the two males used a thumb to point in the direction of the kitchen. “His room’s through the back,” he told his colleague. “Get him some clothes.”

Sherlock looked up unhappily. “Who the hell are you?”

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes. You’re coming with us.” The man then reached forward and shut Sherlock’s laptop.

“Rude,” gasped Scottie.

Sherlock relocated himself. He now noticed Emily in his coat and looked unhappy about it, but said nothing. Several minutes later the second man returned and placed a folded pile of clothing and a pair of shoes down on the table in front of him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged with disinterest.

“Please, Mr. Holmes,” the first man said. “Where you’re going you’ll want to be dressed.”

Sherlock squinted at the man, obviously having silently slipped into his deducing mode. A couple seconds passed and he smiled at him smugly. “Oh, I know exactly where I’m going.”

Without taking the clothing, he allowed himself to be escorted out of the room. The second man grabbed the clothes just in case, and Scottie jumped up, making to follow them out. The first gentleman turned around and stopped him in the doorway.

“Sorry, kid. We’re here for Mr. Holmes only.”

Scottie raised an eyebrow. “Eloquently put, sir, but tough.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” Sherlock spoke up. “The boy doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer any more than I do. He’s also a friend of my brother’s. More or less.”

The man in the suit hesitated for a moment before dropping his hand again. “Fine. But grab him a change of clothes as well.”

Emily quickly slipped on a pair of Uggs and scurried after the group.

\---

The trio was taken to Buckingham Palace, where they were asked to wait in an ornate lounge. Sherlock took a seat on a sofa and his and Scottie’s shoes and clothing were placed on a round coffee table in front of them. “And you’re seriously not going to get changed either?” Emily prodded, claiming a spot at the other end of the couch.

“Nope!” Scottie declared happily, throwing himself down so close that he was just about on top of her, despite having several feet of sitting space left unclaimed.

It wasn’t all that long until John arrived. Sherlock looked to him calmly, and in response John threw his arms out to the side in a ‘what the hell?’ kind of gesture. Sherlock shrugged disinterestedly and looked away again. John crept in hesitantly and then took a seat in the gap between Sherlock and Scottie and Emily. No one spoke but there were obvious signs of suppressed giggles from all four of them. John’s eyes shifted towards Sherlock’s backside.

“Are you wearing any pants?” he finally asked.

“No.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock and John exchanged glances and then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“We’re not either,” Emily laughed along with them. Sherlock tensed up for a moment at this, but because she didn’t ask, Scottie decided not to correct her on the slight error going from American English to British English.

After attempting to compose himself again John gestured to the building. “At Buckingham Palace. Fine.” Still not entirely composed, he took a couple breaths. “Oh, I’m seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.” Sherlock still wasn’t pleased to think that Emily was wearing his coat without any articles of clothing underneath, but he chuckled again at this. “What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Here to see the Queen?”

With flawless timing Mycroft stepped in from the next room. “Oh, apparently yes,” Sherlock smiled. The uncontrollable laughter continued.

Mycroft shot them a look of exasperation. “Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups? This is the sort of behavior I’d expect from the little ones, but you have no excuse.”

“We solve crimes with our adopted teenagers, I blog about it and he forgets his pants,” John beamed, “so I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.”

All humor left Sherlock’s face at once as his brother came further into the room. “I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft.”

“What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?”

“Transparent.”

“Time to move on, then.” Mycroft bent forward and picked up Sherlock and Scottie’s clothes, turning to offer them to the two men. Sherlock looked down at them with little interest and Mycroft sighed. “We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.”

Sherlock shrugged defiantly. “What for?”

“Your client.”

“And my client is?” the detective asked, standing up.

“Illustrious,” an unidentified man chimed in, “in the extreme.” Now John stood. “And remaining - I have to inform you - entirely anonymous.” He looked to the elder Holmes brother in greeting. “Mycroft!”

“Harry.” He walked over and shook the newcomer’s hand. “May I just apologise for the state of my little brother? It’s these children, I’d assume. He’s become somewhat of a full-time babysitter and they have such a profound influence on him.”

“Full-time occupation indeed,” Harry replied. “That must be them, then. Scottie and Emily, if I recall correctly, and you are Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

John reached out and shook Harry’s hand. “Hello, yes.” Scottie and Emily didn’t feel entirely wanted in the situation, and responded to this by not budging an inch or speaking up.

“My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog,” Harry went on.

John looked started. “Your employer?”

“Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch.”

“Thank you!”

“A-loo-min-eum,” Emily whispered to Scottie.

“You sound so surprised every time,” he rolled his eyes.

Harry cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Sherlock. “And Mr. Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs.”

“I take the precaution of a good coat and rather short friends. Mycroft, I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work. Good morning.” And with that the detective made to leave the room. Mycroft, however, made to prevent this by stomping his foot down on the bit of Sherlock’s bedsheet that was trailing behind. Sherlock quickly grabbed at the sheet just in time and attempted to pull it back around himself. Scottie and Emily subconsciously leaned forward, just in case it slipped any more.

“This is a matter of national importance,” pressed Mycroft. “Grow up.”

“Get off my sheet!”

“Or what?”

“Or... I’ll just walk away.”

Scottie and Emily leaned further.

“I’ll let you.”

...and further still.

“Boys, please,” John interrupted. “Not here.”

“Who. Is. My. CLIENT?” Sherlock hissed.

“Take a look at where you’re standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now, for God’s sake… put your clothes on!”

Sherlock closed his eyes, obviously bubbling with anger. It was quite terrifying, actually. The detective pulled in a sharp breath, finally admitting defeat. Sherlock marched up to the table and snatched up the pile of clothes. Harry escorted him and Scottie to someplace where they could change in privacy. Emily stayed behind and an uncomfortable silence fell over the room where she waited with John and Mycroft.

“Do you really think that’s any more appropriate, miss?” John questioned, joining her on the sofa again.

Emily shrugged. “I can take it off if you’d like.”

“No!” both men shouted simultaneously and started to jump forward. Emily looked confused. She still had no idea that earlier she’d implied she was naked underneath.

“Well, I was joking, but you didn’t have to react that strongly…”

When the others returned a tea set was brought into the room as well. “I’ll be mother,” Mycroft said, pouring it.

“And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell,” Sherlock mocked. Mycroft glared back and set the tea kettle down.

“My employer has a problem,” Harry brought them back on topic.

“A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen.”

“Why? You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?”

“People do come to you for help, don’t they, Mr. Holmes?”

“Not, to date, anyone with a Navy.”

“This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust.”

“Well this has been fascinating,” Scottie announced, “but do you think you can hurry it up a little and get to the point?”

Mycroft made a face at this. “Yes, of course.” The man opened up his briefcase and took from it a glossy photograph. He handed it to Sherlock. “What do you know about this woman?”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“Then you should be paying more attention. She’s been at the center of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately.”

“You go, girl.” Emily leaned over to have a look at the picture.

Sherlock handed the thing off to the girl with disinterest. “You know I don’t concern myself with trivia. Who is she?”

“Irene Adler, professionally known as--”

“The Woman,” Scottie and Emily said, both glancing over the photograph.

Mycroft furrowed his brows. “Oh? Heard of her, have we?”

“No,” Emily denied.

“Yes,” confessed Scottie at the same time.

“I mean, only a bit,” corrected Emily.

“No, I misspoke,” Scottie also corrected. Again, at the same time. They both glared at one another.

Mycroft sighed. “Well, while you two are busy getting your stories straight… There are many names for what she does. She prefers ‘dominatrix’.”

“Dominatrix,” Sherlock repeated thoughtfully.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Mycroft cooed. “It’s to do with sex.”

“Sex doesn’t alarm me.”

Mycroft pursed his lips into a snide smile. “How would you know?”

“How would you know?” Scottie threw back just loud enough for Mycroft to hear.

Mycroft’s smile faded. He went on regardless: “She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it.” The gentleman then reached into his briefcase again and handed several more photographs to his brother. “These are all from her website.”

Sherlock flipped through the pictures. Once he had finished the detective started to pass these off to Scottie and Emily as well, but John intercepted the exchange with a warning glance. “And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs,” Sherlock guessed.

“You’re very quick, Mr. Holmes,” purred Harry.

“Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?”

“ME.” Scottie puffed up his chest proudly. John elbowed him and Emily snickered.

“A person of significance to my employer - not you - but we’d prefer not to say any more at this time.”

“You can’t tell us anything?” asked John.

“Ooh ooh, can we play 20 Questions for it!” exclaimed Emily.

Mycroft tilted his head somewhat. “I can tell you it’s a young person.”

“Me,” Scottie whispered. John rolled his eyes, sipping at his teacup.

“A young female person.”

“M--oh wait.” Scottie’s eyes now darted to Emily. This time she was the one to jab him with her elbow. John’s eyes widened at this news and Sherlock merely smirked.

“How many photographs?” the detective inquired.

“A considerable number, apparently.”

“Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?”

“Yes, they do.”

“And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios.”

“An imaginative range, we are assured.”

“But what a plot twist if it actually were you,” Scottie teased, leaning towards Emily. She didn’t elbow him again, but certainly considered it whilst finishing her drink.

Sherlock glanced over at John and realized that he hadn’t stopped staring blankly at Mycroft, teacup still half raised. “John. You might want to put that cup back in your saucer now.”

“Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?”

“How?”

“Will you take the case?”

“What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, “Know when you are beaten”. Sherlock made to grab his coat, and then remembered that Emily was still wearing it. He pulled his hand back in with a mix of dismay and annoyance.

“She doesn’t want anything,” Mycroft clarified. Sherlock turned to face him again. For the first time since they’d arrived a look of genuine interest flashed across his face. “She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor.”

“Oh, a power play,” Sherlock mused. “A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock…” John warned.

“Hm. Where is she?”

“Uh, in London currently. She’s staying--”

“Text me the details.” Sherlock got up, not waiting for his brother to finish. “I’ll be in touch by the end of the day.” Everyone jumped to their feet at once as he made his exit.

“Do you really think you’ll have news by then?”

“No, I think I’ll have the photographs.”

Harry pursed his lips. “One can only hope you’re as good as you seem to think.”

Sherlock stopped to glance at the man up and down, obviously deducing the shit out of him just to prove a prove a point to himself. “Alright, alright, you keep that ego in check,” Emily purred, giving him a nudge out the door.

\---

John unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street and all four of them filed in. “Oh, you’ll probably be wanting this back,” Emily realized, referring to Sherlock’s coat.

Sherlock looked over and made a face. “Um. Actually, why don’t you hold onto that for now and I’ll retrieve it after Mrs. Hudson’s put it through the wash.”

“Oh, come on. I couldn’t have even been wearing it for much more than an hour,” Emily rolled her eyes.

“It has nothing to do with how long--” But before Sherlock could make it apparent that he still thought she had nothing on underneath, Emily started to undo the coat buttons. Sherlock and John immediately spun around as to avert their eyes. After a couple seconds John started to tilt his head back, to which Sherlock slapped a hand over the other man’s face.

“Whelp, I’m gonna go put clothes back on,” Emily announced, leaving Sherlock’s coat on the floor as she went back downstairs. Scottie was apparently the only one who knew what was actually going on and struggled to hold back laughter.

“Why did you peek?” Sherlock hissed to John.

“I didn’t mean to look,” he shot back. “But I didn’t see anything anyway, so it wasn’t that bad!”

“That bad? She’s seventeen!”

“No, we went over this. She’s eighteen.”

“Like that makes much of a difference.”

“I don’t know, I’d say it makes a whole lot of a difference.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You know what, never mind. Just forget I said anything. I have more important things to worry about than your uncontrollable urge to stare at anything with breasts.” The detective spun around dramatically and made for his bedroom.

“I wasn’t--” John called after him, his mouth still ajar as if he’d been offended. “I wasn’t checking her out,” he told Scottie sternly. “I wasn’t.”

The boy smirked. “She’d take it as a compliment if you were.”

“WASN’T.”

A good fifteen minutes went by, during which Sherlock threw a series of clothes and their hangers about his room. He made a fair amount of racket in doing so, and eventually even John looked up from the kitchen table out of curiosity.

“What are you doing?”

“Going into battle, John. I need the right armor.”

Emily came back into the flat having changed into jeans and a blouse. She joined Scottie on the couch, where he was sitting with his laptop out and the Sims open.

“Is that supposed to be us?” the girl asked, leaning over to see.

Sherlock came out again. “Ready?” he asked John on his way through the kitchen.

“Wh--Now?”

“Yes now.” Sherlock went into the living room and retrieved his usual coat.

“Wait wait wait - we’re coming too, right?” Emily sounded hopeful.

Sherlock glanced up from tying on his scarf with a half-smile. “You’re asking as if I’ve ever had any luck stopping the both of you from doing so in the past.”

“Touche.”

“You’re taking them along to see a… a dominatrix? Are you sure that’s such a good idea?” John quested from the kitchen doorway.

“Afraid we’ll start getting ideas now that we’re legal?” Scottie raised an eyebrow.

Emily grinned mischieviously. “Actually, I did have a couple questions about toys, and I’m sure Miss Adler would be just the person to answer them.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” John warned, passing by them on his way to the coat rack.

The four of them exited the building and John hailed a cab that passed by in no time at all. Scottie called not-shotgun (as was usually the case whenever they traveled as a group) and Emily came up front while the other three squished into the back row of the taxi. Sherlock recited the address he’d been given to the driver and they set out.

“So, what’s the plan?” John asked after sitting in silence for several blocks.

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed out the cab window. “We know her address.”

“What, just ring her doorbell?”

“Maybe we can dress up as Boy Scouts and pretend we’re selling cookies?” Emily suggested, leaning over the seat to face them.

John tilted his head. “Sorry?”

“Why Boy Scouts?” Scottie questioned.

“Um, because it’d be easier for me to pass off as a boy than all four of us pretend to be girls. Duh.”

“Except that Boy Scouts don’t sell cookies.”

“...Girl Scouts it is then.”

“Since you apparently don’t seem to be aware, they’re called Girl Guides here,” Sherlock pointed out matter-of-factly. “You also probably ought to refer to them as biscuits to avoid culture confusion. Not that it matters, because Girl Guides don’t sell biscuits like yours seem to in the states.”

Wrinkling her nose, Emily turned back around in her seat. “That’s disappointing. I don’t suppose we can try purchasing them online when cookie season rolls back around?”

“Just here, please,” Sherlock told to cab driver.

“You didn’t even change your clothes,” muttered John.

“Then it’s time to add a splash of color.”

The group climbed out of the cab and only John was surprised that they seemed to be headed down a narrow street. Sherlock pulled off his scarf while walking and then stopped suddenly, whirling around to face John.

“Are we here?” the doctor asked absently.

“Two streets away, but this’ll do.”

“For what?”

Sherlock pointed a finger at his own cheek. “Punch me in the face.”

John blinked in surprise. “Punch you?” he echoed.

“I’ll do it if he won’t,” Emily volunteered. Scottie looked at her questioningly. She shrugged.

“In front of the kids?” John went on.

“They’ve seen blood before,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Aren’t we supposed to be their role models or something?”

“John, we haven’t the time for a discussion on proper parental figures. Now hurry up and punch me. In the face. Didn’t you hear me?”

John pursed his lips together. “I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.”

“Oh, God’s sakes.” Sherlock now took this opportunity to launch his own fist at his flatmate’s face, knocking him backwards a bit. Once he’d regained his balance, John then threw a punch back in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock straightened up again and touched his fingers to the new cut on his cheek. “Thank you,” the man breathed. “That was… that was…” But John wasn’t finished just yet. The doctor hurled another attack, this time directed at Sherlock’s stomach, and this blow knocked Sherlock off his feet.

Emily gave her companion a sidelong glance. “If you’re not gonna jump in I will.”

“Emily. No.”

“Oh c’mon; how many opportunities does a person have to get in the middle of a fistfight with John Watson and Sherlock fucking Holmes?”

Scottie looked disgusted. “Do I even know you?”

“Suit yourself,” the girl shrugged just before throwing herself into the fray. Scottie stood there looking conflicted for a couple seconds before he, too, ran forward with a defeated “fuck”.

“You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier,” John was in the middle of saying, his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock from behind and doubled over. “I killed people!”

“You were a doctor!”

“I had bad days!”

“I just wanna be included!” Emily let out, sprinting at them both and then jumping up at the last second so that she was now in a piggyback on John, her own arms clinging to his still around Sherlock’s and legs wrapped around them both to keep from falling over.

Scottie was now behind the display, digging his heels into the ground and pulling at Emily’s sweatshirt hood to try and get her down. This effectively choked her and, after a couple seconds of tugging with all his might, Sherlock and John were thrown off-balance and all three of them came toppling down on top of Scottie.

“Can we be done now?” Sherlock wheezed, rolling off of the top of the pile they’d made. John struggled to his feet shortly after him and Scottie used his foot to kick Emily off of himself as soon as she was no longer pinned down by the others.

Once back on two feet Scottie brushed himself off and shot a glare at Emily, who was still sprawled out across the cement with a satisfied grin. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” he muttered.

“No regrets,” she purred back. John offered out a hand to the girl, and she took it and allowed him to help her back onto her feet. “Thanks,” Emily smiled. “Although I wish I had a hairbrush with me now.”

“Are you alright?” Scottie asked Sherlock.

The detective nodded but didn’t meet his eyes (he rarely did this anyways). “Well. Now that that’s out of the way, we can move on.”

“What was the point of that, anyway?”

“You’ll see.”

Sherlock led his flatmates a couple blocks further and in front of a large residence, where he instructed John to wait a little ways behind them. After ringing the front doorbell he uncharacteristically ushered Scottie and Emily in front of himself and held a protective hand over each of their shoulders. The teenagers exchanged somewhat confused looks as a woman’s voice came from over the intercom.

“Hello?”

The detective’s eyes widened and began to tear up as he slipped into character. “Ooh! Um, sorry to disturb you. Um. I was out with my kids, and, um, we’ve just been attacked, um, and, um, I… I told them to run, so that they wouldn’t get hurt to, but uh.. I think they… they took my wallet and, um, and my phone. Um, please, could you help me?”

“I can phone the police if you want,” the woman answered after a thoughtful pause.

Still with a firm grasp on the both of them, Sherlock shook his arms and made Scottie and Emily sway a bit in a way that implied he was grateful and they should be, too. “Thank you!” he let out. “Thank you! Could you, please?” The man took a step backwards, finally dropping his hands. Scottie and Emily continued to stand there awkwardly, not saying anything that would throw off his act. “Oh, would you… would you mind if I let my children wait here, just until they come?” Sherlock went on. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Sherlock, dressed as a vicar and most definitely overdoing the part, pressed a handkerchief to his injured cheek and waited patiently as they were buzzed in. Holding out a hand to invite Scottie and Emily inside first, Sherlock followed the kids in.

“Thank you,” he told Kate, the woman who had let them in, once more.

John invited himself inside and shut the door behind himself. “I-I saw it all happen,” he explained. “It’s okay; I’m a doctor. Now, have you got a first aid kit?”

“In the kitchen,” Kate told him, nodding. She held out a hand to show Sherlock into the front room. “Please.”

“Oh! Thank you!” Sherlock let out. “Scottie, Emily… Why don’t you two wait for me here?”

“Thank you,” John smiled gratefully. This look faded as he passed by Scottie and Emily, who were still standing near the front door. “Don’t touch anything or cause any sort of trouble, you hear?” he whispered harshly just before following Sherlock and Kate into the next room.

Emily pursed her lips together. “Guess that rules out scavenger hunt for sex toys to mortify John with later.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” pouted Scottie. “Why shouldn’t we be allowed to meet Irene too?”

“I dunno, he thinks we’d be a distraction?”

“Well. We totally would but that’s beside the point.”

“We’ll get our chance soon enough. I’m sure you don’t really wanna see a naked Irene anyway.” Emily took out the pink phone and waved it at Scottie. “Wanna snoop around upstairs while we wait?”

“Do I ever!”

Just under twenty minutes had passed, but the teenagers had long since gotten bored. Scottie was currently lying down sideways in an armchair and staring up at the ceiling as Emily hovered close to the open door, just close enough to the stairwell so that she could have a fair warning if Kate was coming to escort them back into the foyer (which had happened once already).

“That actually wasn’t as great as I’d hoped it would be,” Scottie admitted.

“Looks like we’re right on schedule, though,” Emily mused. She took a step outside of the room to peer over the railing at John down below. It was difficult to make out exactly what he was holding from up above, but the girl already knew that it would be a magazine, smoke protruding from its rolled end. “Three… two…” The smoke alarm went of and Emily smirked, finishing her countdown: “one.”

“Uh, Emily?”

“Mm?” Emily went, not looking back at her friend just yet.

“Emily,” Scottie tried again. His voice sounded strained, and so she spun around, only to find that their company had been joined by three more Americans. One of them had a gun fixed on Scottie, and a second point his weapon at her.

“Um. Irene’s downstairs,” Emily said loud enough to be heard over the shrieking of the fire alarm.

The one that appeared to be in charge of the group nodded his head towards the bottom of the stairwell, and keeping their hands raised defensively, the kids were then lead back into the foyer. John was in the midst of fussing with his smokey magazine roll, smacking it against a table to try and completely put the thing out, when they came closer into view. One of the men shot at the alarm, effectively shutting it off with a silencer so large that they barely even heard the weapon go off. John stopped what he was doing and instantly raised his own arms.

“Thank you,” he managed.

Still without commentary, the three armed men herded John and the kids towards the sitting room where Irene and Sherlock currently were. One of them came forward and kicked the door open, then came fully into the room with his pistol now raised at Sherlock.

“Hands behind your head,” this man instructed. And then to Irene: “On the floor.” He glanced at Scottie and Emily. “You both, too. Keep it still.”

Emily felt the barrel of a gun prod into her back, but she didn’t need to be told twice. The girl and Scottie dropped to their knees and crawled towards Irene, who remained standing and looked at them both as if she already knew who they were. The man who had touched Emily with his firearm followed the two of them in and kept his gun out and facing their general direction.

John made a face. “Sorry, Sherlock.”

“Ms. Adler, on the floor,” the leader of the Americans repeated. His partner walked around Scottie and Emily and shoved Irene to her knees. The third man, who had been behind Scottie before, approached John in a similar manner. Once kneeling on the ground the doctor held both hands behind his head.

“Don’t you want me on the floor too?” Sherlock asked.

“No, sir. I want you to open the safe.”

“American. Interesting. Why would you care?”

Irene put her hands behind her head now. Emily noticed her doing this and elbowed Scottie in the process of her mirroring the action, implying that he should, too.

“Sir. The safe. Now, please.”

“I don’t know the code,” Sherlock shot back.

The man seemed unconvinced. “We’ve been listening. She said she told you.”

“Well, if you’d been listening, you’d know she didn’t.”

“I’m assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I’m assuming you didn’t, Mr. Holmes.”

“For God’s sake,” grumbled John. “She’s the one who knows the code; ask HER.”

“Yes, sir. She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I’ve learned not to trust this woman.”

Irene opened her mouth to speak: “Mr. Holmes doesn’t--”

“Shut up,” the American interrupted. “One more word out of you, just one, and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship. Oh, so many to choose from… Mr. Archer. At the count of three shoot the boy.”

Scottie sat up slightly taller in alarm. “H-Hold on a minute, that’s not…”

“Hang on, he’s just a kid,” John argued. “If there’s anyone you should be holding hostage--”

“You’ll get your chance soon enough if Mr. Holmes doesn’t cooperate,” the other man promised.

“I don’t have the code,” Sherlock said as seriously as he could. Scottie felt the cool tip of the gun touch against his neck and he lowered his head somewhat as he heard it cock.

“One.”

“I don’t know the code.”

“Two.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Sherlock continued to plead. “I don’t know it!”

“I’m prepared to believe you any second now.”

“Three.”

“NO, STOP!”

The man in charge held up his free hand and Scottie released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding on to. Sherlock slowly turned towards the safe in question and lowered his hands. The detective hesitated for a moment or two before punching a couple numbers into the keypad, waiting, putting in four more, and stopping yet again before pushing the final two digits. A beep came from the safe and it unlocked. Irene smiled to herself and Sherlock let out a sigh, closing his eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please.”

Sherlock took his time in twisting a button on the safe. He hesitated once more to glance back at Irene before and loudly shouted “Vatican cameos” just before thrusting open the safe. Upon hearing the codeword, John immediately lunged sideways, grabbing Scottie and Emily by whatever he could easiest reach, and yanked them both towards the floor and out of the way of a bullet that had come from inside the safe and hit Mr. Archer square in his chest. Sherlock and Irene sprung into action, easily disarming and knocking the remaining two men to the ground while John, Scottie, and Emily mostly watched from the ground in stunned silence.

“D’you mind?” Sherlock asked Irene.

“Not at all,” came her response. The fellow she’d just taken down had begun to pick himself up again, which she quickly reversed by smacking the gun she’d confiscated across his face, sending him into the realm of unconsciousness.

“That was SO FUCKING BADASS!” Scottie wheezed, flopping onto his backside and grinning. “Let’s do it again!”

“Oh yeah, I just love getting unceremoniously dragged into rooms at gunpoint and then having to sit around and watch a stranger threaten to blow my best friend to bits,” Emily choked. “Because that’s totally not traumatizing or anything like that.”

“He’s dead,” John muttered, referring to Mr. Archer.

Irene kept her pistol fixed on the blacked out man. “Thank you,” she told Sherlock. “You were very observant.”

“Observant?” John echoed.

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock shot back.

“Flattered?” John parroted again. Scottie reached for the deceased Mr. Archer’s weapon and John slapped his hand away, taking the thing for himself.

“There’ll be more of them. They’ll be keeping an eye on the building.” Sherlock removed the silencer from his gun and hurried out of the room. John darted after him. Irene went over to the safe and Scottie and Emily picked themselves up. Moments later they heard five gunshots from just outside, courtesy of Sherlock.

Emily watched Irene with interest. “I’m Emily, by the way,” she finally said. “And the guy you nearly contributed to the murder of, that’s Scottie.”

“I know who you are,” Irene mused, turning around.

Sherlock and John came back into the room. “Check the rest of the house. See how they got in,” Sherlock instructed. John nodded and exited again. Once he’d left Sherlock took a phone he’d retrieved from the safe out from his pocket and tossed it into the air and caught it again playfully. “Well, that’s the knighthood in the bag.”

“Ah. And that’s mine.” Irene held out a hand and was promptly ignored.

“All the photographs are on here, I presume.”

“I have copies, of course.”

“No you don’t. You’ll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are proveably unique, you wouldn’t be able to sell them.”

Irene let her hand drop. “Who said I’m selling?”

“Well, why would they be interested?” Sherlock asked, looking around at the bodies. “Whatever’s on the phone, it’s clearly not just photographs.”

“That camera phone is my life, Mr. Holmes. I’d die before I let you take it.” She came closer to the detective, her hand out once more. “It’s my protection.”

“Sexual tension much?” Emily whispered to Scottie, who promptly shushed her.

John’s voice rang out from outside the sitting room: “Sherlock!”

“It was,” Sherlock corrected, pulling the phone back and turning around. The remaining three of them in the room followed him out and joined John upstairs. They found him kneeling beside an unconscious Kate in a bedroom.

“Must have come in this way,” the doctor theorized.

“Clearly.” Sherlock went to the bathroom window as Irene came towards Kate’s body, suddenly looking anxious.

“It’s alright,” John told her. “She’s just out cold.”

“Well, God knows she’s used to that. There’s a back door. Better check it out, Doctor Watson.”

“Sure.”

“Take the kids with you. Don’t want them feeling left out.”

“Oh? Oh, alright. C’mon.” John motioned with his head and Scottie and Emily exchanged looks before following him out.

“You sure we should leave Sherlock alone with her like that?” Scottie asked Emily, his voice low so that John couldn’t hear. “I mean. We both know what she’s planning and why she wanted us out of the room for it.”

“Eh, it all works out in the end. Also last time we intentionally got in the middle of something, I was shot, remember?”

“Afraid Irene might stick you with a syringe too?” Scottie teased.

“Y’know, for someone who just had a gun pointed at his own head, you’re disturbingly cheery.”

The two of them followed John around to the other end of the second floor, where at the end of a hallway they located a door leading outside with a wooden staircase attached to the back of the house and going down to the ground level.

“Bingo,” John muttered to himself, turning around and pushing through Scottie and Emily back the way he’d come. With a sigh, the teenager whirled around and followed after him. They nearly crashed into his backside when he stopped suddenly in the doorway to the room they’d started in, saying, “Jesus. What are you doing?”

“He’ll sleep for a few hours,” Irene explained calmly from inside. “Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse.”

The three of them came further into the room. Irene headed over to the bathroom and sat down on its windowsill as John went over to Sherlock, who was currently sprawled across the floor, and took up a syringe that was lying next to him.

“What’s this? What have you given him? Sherlock!”

“He’ll be fine. I’ve used it on loads of my friends.”

John was now kneeling beside his flatmate and hunched over him. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“You know, I was wrong about him,” Irene went on. “He did know where to look.”

John picked himself up again and turned to face her. “For what? What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“The key code to my safe.”

“What is it?”

The woman’s eyes shifted over to Sherlock, who was staring back at her angrily and trying with no such luck to stand up again. “Shall I tell him?” Irene purred. They could hear sirens outside now. Irene smiled. “My measurements.” And on that note she pushed her feet against the edge of the bathtub and rolled backwards out of the open window, clinging to a cord on her way down. John’s eyes widened and he rushed over to where she’d been sitting just moments before to stuck his head out of the window in astonishment.

There was a hush that came over the room, save the continuous string of sirens from outside. “I’ll… I’d better go out there and explain what’s happened,” John announced, coming away from the window again. “You two stay put,” he instructed with a warning finger on his way past Scottie and Emily out of the room.

A devious look overcame the girl and without saying anything she bounded over to the bathroom cabinets. Scottie raised an eyebrow and peered into the room. “What’re you…?” She came out again with her hands full and plopped down next to the barely conscious Sherlock. Mouth still slightly ajar, Scottie came to her side again and melted onto his knees.

“What do you think?” Emily asked, spreading out an array of supplies on the floor in front of her. “Firetruck red or more of a maroon?”

“Is that… Are you planning on putting makeup on Sherlock?!”

Emily looked at Scottie determinedly. “Today is a day of many opportunities. Now quick, I don’t know how much time we have; pick one.”

Scottie pursed his lips. “This is wrong on so many levels.”

“Fine. I’ll go with the maroon. More Smaug, less Mushu.” The girl uncapped the lipstick and leaned over Sherlock to put it on. It was hard to determine just how much of what was going on he could comprehend, but he moved his head slightly and Emily pulled away to keep from smearing the stuff. “Hey, hold him in place for me, would you?”

Scottie shook his head quickly. “I want no part of this.”

With a sigh, Emily crawled directly on top of Sherlock, pinning his head in place with her knees, and continued on with her work. Once finished she capped the lipstick, contemplated tossing it aside, and then stuck it into a back pocket instead and held her open palm out to the side. “Liquid liner please.” When Scottie didn’t assist her, Emily made a face and reached over to retrieve the next tool herself.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” a familiar voice let out from behind them. Instead of stopping, Emily hurried to complete several finishing touches on her masterpiece before a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to sideways onto the floor. John snatched the pencil liner away and shot her a betrayed look.

“Oh my God.” Lestrade was standing at the entrance to the room now. He cupped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“What were you thinking?” hissed John. “Sherlock’s been drugged. He doesn’t need you harassing him on top of everything!”

“I don’t know,” Lestrade mused. “That color really works on him. Brings out his eyes.”

Emily grinned. “I know, right?”

John scowled and began struggling to pick up Sherlock. “Give me a hand, will you?” he asked Scottie, who hesitated for a moment before coming over to John and helped by putting one of Sherlock’s arms around himself. Emily crouched down and started to reach for the detective’s leg when John stopped her, saying “Not you!” The girl frowned at this and stepped back, her arms crossed.

“Hang on, I’ve got to document this,” Lestrade chuckled to himself, taking out a camera phone. “Smile, everybody!”

Sherlock started to moan something, but it was incoherent and difficult to make out. Emily popped her head into the frame with a cheesy grin.

“I love it,” Lestrade smirked, looking at the picture he’d just taken.

“Greg,” John warned.

“What? Oh. Right. Sorry.” Lestrade put his phone away and came forward to help John carry Sherlock out of the room.

\---

Sherlock had apparently forgotten about his makeover the following morning, well after John had taken the last of it off. But John didn’t, and the punishment he found fitting enough was to have Emily cook breakfast for them. This she wasn’t entirely excited about, but she complied easily enough and there were plenty of pancakes for everyone. John was seated at kitchen table working on his while Sherlock sat nearby, looking over a newspaper.

Mycroft had stopped by not that long ago. He hovered in the doorway to the kitchen and refused a plate of Emily’s pancakes, which offended her. Now she was busying herself washing the dishes they had finished with and had somehow managed to get Scottie’s help in the task.

“The photographs are perfectly safe,” Sherlock was telling his brother.

“In the hands of a fugitive sex worker,” Mycroft pointed out bitterly.

“She’s not interested in blackmail. She wants… protection, for some reason. I take it you’ve stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?”

“How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied.”

“She’d applaud your choice of words,” Sherlock mused. Scottie snickered at this. “You see how this works: the camera phone is her Get Out of Jail Free card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft.”

“Though not the way she treats royalty,” John muttered through a mouthful of his breakfast. He glanced up at Mycroft with a smug grin. Mycroft returned the look with a humorless smile.

Suddenly Sherlock’s phone went off, the text alert now being the sound of a loud and rather sexual woman’s sigh. It was a sound that Scottie was very familiar with - except something was different about it now. It wasn’t the same sound as he was expecting.

John looked startled. “Um. Emily?”

“Not me,” Emily answered, looking over her shoulder somewhat.

“Text,” Sherlock answered calmly.

“But what was that noise?”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Scottie whispered to Emily.

“I’m a little busy,” she shot back.

“Now.” Scottie started into the living room, pulling the girl along with him. Emily let out an exasperated sigh and threw her dish towel back down on the kitchen counter.

“What is it now?” she demanded once they were out of the immediate vicinity of the conversation going on between the Holmes brothers and John. “Am I in trouble again? Because that seems to be the case more often than not.”

“Did you record over Irene’s text tone with your own rendition?” Scottie accused.

“I...” Emily pursed her lips into a sly smile. “You have to admit, it would’ve been really clever on my part if I had.”

“No it wouldn’t.”

“Sure it would. He think’s it’s The Woman. And that’s what makes it funny.”

Scottie shook his head in disbelief. “You’re going to hell.”

“Whelp! Guess I’ll see you there!” Emily teased, elbowing him playfully just before he went back into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was in the flat now, and the two women caught up with each other in the next room.

“You really didn’t have to do this, you know,” Mrs. Hudson told Emily.

Emily went pale. “Do what? What do you know?”

“The… breakfast, I mean.”

“Oh,” Emily let out a relieved breath. “No, yeah, it’s fine. I actually did kind of have to. Owed them one, as it were.”

“Well at least let me help you clean up,” smiled the landlady.

“What? Oh, no it’s… That’s okay! I was just about done as it were.”

Mycroft had apparently gone into the hallway to take a call. “That noise,” John was saying when they turned the corner. “The one it just made.”

Sherlock remained nonchalant about it all. “It’s a text alert. It means I’ve got a text.”

“Hm. Your texts don’t usually make that noise.”

“Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise.”

Scottie shot Emily a judgemental glare from across the room, to which she held a finger up against her lips. Sherlock came into the living room now, phone in one hand and newspaper in the other, and the teenagers immediately dropped their poses in hopes of not drawing any unwanted attention.

John got up and trailed after him. “Hm. So. Every time they text you…” As if on cue, the infamous text alert when off yet again.

“It would seem so.”

“Could you turn that phone down a bit?” Mrs. Hudson asked from the doorway. “At my time of life, it’s…”

“I’m wondering who could have got hold of your phone,” interrupted John, “because it would have been in your coat, wouldn’t it?” He eyed Emily, who shot him an incredulous look.

Sherlock took a seat in his armchair and set the device down on the table beside it. He then unfolded his paper again and held it unnecessarily high in front of his face. “I’ll leave you to your deductions.”

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Where do you get that idea?”

Mycroft reentered the room, still with his phone pressed against his ear. “Bond Air is go, that’s decided,” he was saying. “Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.” The man hung up and looked to Sherlock expectantly.

“Why do people on TV shows never say ‘goodbye’ when they’re leaving a phone call?” Emily asked softly, half to herself.

“What else does she have?” Sherlock asked his brother with a glance up from his paper. “Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There’s more.” The detective stood up and came closer to Mycroft. “Much more. Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”

Mycroft seemed to narrow his eyes as he answered: “Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this.”

“Oh, will I?”

“Yes, Sherlock. You will.”

“And now hug it out! There we go!” Scottie was suddenly between the two grown men, attempting to push them closer together.

Mycroft stepped back, a disgusted look upon his face. “Ugh! Keep your child under control!”

“Believe me, if it were possible, I would’ve a long time ago.”

Mycroft straightened his jacket with a humph. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.”

Sherlock reached for his violin, which was lying nearby and out of its case. “Do give her my love,” he cooed, picking up the instrument and beginning to play God Save the Queen. Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned to leave.

\---

Time passed and the holiday season inevitably rolled around.

Sherlock finished playing We Wish You a Merry Christmas on his violin with a playful flourish of the bow. The party guests applauded and Lestrade let out a whistle.

"Lovely!" Mrs. Hudson cooed. "Sherlock, that was lovely."

"Marvelous," added John, walking across the room with a teacup and saucer in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other.

The door flung open and Emily waltzed into the room wearing a Santa dress with an energetic "Ho ho ho, bitches!"

Mrs. Hudson looked appalled. "Goodness, young lady, are you sure that's appropriate? And if you don't stop talking like that, I swear, I'm going to have no choice but to sit you down and give your mouth a good washing with soap."

"Sounds kinky," muttered Scottie as he followed Emily in.

"Oh, leave her alone," smiled John. "It's Christmas. And I think it rather suits her." John's current girlfriend at the time, Jeanette, whipped her head around glared at him from where she had been hovering near the entrance to the kitchen. John's face reddened. "I-I mean that in the most platonic of ways! Calm down, she's like a daughter to me."

"Well I certainly wouldn't want my daughter walking around dressed like that," Jeanette grumbled unhappily. With a huff she disappeared past Lestrade and around the corner.

"I wish you would have worn the antlers," Mrs. Hudson tried changing the topic.

Sherlock knelt down to put his instrument away. "Some things are best left to the imagination."

"Oh! Mrs. H." John suddenly remembered the tea and handed it off to Mrs. Hudson. She was looking a bit tipsy and he perhaps was trying to use this to distract Mrs. Hudson from her current champagne glass.

Jeanette reentered the room with a tray filled with mince pie and slices of cake and offered one to Sherlock.

"No thank you, Sarah."

"Jeanette," Scottie interjected, hoping to spare her from the awkwardness he knew was about to ensue. “He’s not good with names.”

Emily bobbed her head up and down in agreement. “Terrible, actually. I don’t think he even bothered to learn mine for the first month or so. It was always ‘kid’ or ‘the female one.’”

"Right." Sherlock pursed his lips together. "Jeanette. Sorry. Sarah was the doctor; and then there was the one with the spots, and then the one with the nose, and then… who was after the boring teacher?”

“Nobody,” Jeanette said stiffly.

Sherlock grinned at her falsely. “Process of elimination. I would’ve gotten it eventually.”

John came over and awkwardly lead Jeanette away. The door opened again and this time Molly came into the room.

“Oh, dear lord,” Sherlock said half to himself.

The woman was smiling shyly and carrying with her two bags full of presents. “Hello, everyone,” she greeted. “Sorry. Hello.”

John came in again and smiled back, giving her a little nod.

“Er, it said on the door just to come up?”

“Molly!” Scottie and Emily let out, running up to hug her. She didn’t hug back because of her full hands. In fact, if anything she just kind of tilted backwards and tried to keep from falling over from the onslaught of love.

“Well if it isn’t my two favorite junior detectives in all of London,” she laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. “Oh, everybody’s saying hullo to each other. How wonderful,” he said much louder and more sarcastic than necessary. Molly smiled back at the man nervously and, once the teens had released her, began removing her coat and scarf.

“Let me,” John started, standing ready to take her coat. “Er… holy Mary!”

“Are some of these for us?” Scottie asked, peering into one of Molly’s bags. Mrs. Hudson shot him a warning look.

“Wow!” gaped Lestrade. He’d hardly moved the entire time and appeared to find Molly’s dress much to his liking.

“Having a Christmas drinkies, then?” asked Molly.

Sherlock took a seat at the table. “No stopping them, apparently.”

“It’s the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me,” Mrs. Hudson interjected, “so it’s almost worth it!”

“Hhhh,” Emily groaned. “I want to open a present already!”

“And I second this motion,” Scottie added.

Mrs. Hudson frowned. “Don’t you two have any patience? Half the fun of getting Christmas presents is the ‘looking forward to them’ bit, you know.”

“Oh, we might as well let them,” John said. “I mean, quite a few of the people here played a part in getting them gifts and they might like to see their reactions.”

Their landlady shook her head disappointedly. “Ah, youth just don’t appreciate the thrills of delayed gratification anymore. Alright, but don’t you two go complaining when there isn’t anything to open up tomorrow morning, you hear?”

Scottie and Emily nodded excitedly as John went to fetch a couple boxes from underneath their Christmas tree (this wasn’t in the original episode, but the newest members of the cast had insisted upon it being there). Meanwhile Sherlock was busy logging on to John’s laptop.

“So, we all pitched in to get you this,” John said, handing Emily a Christmas present that was shaped very much like a violin case and weighed the same as one.

The girl took it excitedly. “Ooh ooh ooh, I hope it’s a car!”

“I bet it’s a giant dildo,” whispered Scottie.

Mrs. Hudson let out a horrified gasp and clipped the back of the boy’s ear.

“And this one’s yours.” John handed Scottie a wrapped gift of his own. “While Emily handed me a wishlist long enough to fill half a notebook well over a month ago, you were much harder to shop for. So we just got you--”

“Socks,” finished Scottie. He had already ripped open the cardboard box to find it filled with an entire arsenal of pairs of socks. Socks in an almost comedic variety of colors, patterns, pictures, lengths, and even materials. “But like, a lot of socks.”

John made a guilty face. “Well. Yeah. Um. I hope that’s alright?”

“Are you kidding?” Scottie beamed. “This must be what heaven is like!” Much to the entire room’s surprise, the boy immediately began fitting as many pairs over his arms as possible as if they were gloves, or perhaps armor. “I am Captain Sockarms!” he cackled. Just next to him Mrs. Hudson looked torn between embarrassment and relief that he didn’t hate the present after all.

“This is the strangest car I’ve ever seen,” Emily mumbled, inspecting her new violin.

“So you won’t keep borrowing mine without asking,” Sherlock said without looking up from the computer. “John?”

“Mm?”

“Told you he knew about that. Captain Sockarms knows all the things.”

John came over to see what Sherlock was looking at as Lestrade offered Molly a drink.

“How’s the hip?” Molly asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Ooh, it’s atrocious,” the older woman told her, “but thanks for asking.”

“I’ve seen much worse, but then, I do post-mortems.”

Scottie and Emily suddenly let out a forced laugh, yet again in an attempt to prevent the destined awkwardness that was to ensue.

“Oh, man, post-mortems,” Emily sighed. “That… That’s a good one.” Scottie nodded in vigorous agreement.

Molly looked somewhat surprised by their reaction. “Oh. Um. Y-You think so?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. They always did have the strangest sense of humor,” Sherlock muttered flatly.

“Thank you,” Molly said to Lestrade as he handed her a glass of wine. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas.”

Lestrade shook his head. “That’s first thing in the morning, me and the wife. We’re back together. It’s all sorted.”

“No, she’s sleeping with a P.E. teacher,” Sherlock pointed out. Scottie pinched at the bridge of his nose.

Now Molly turned to John, who was seated on the arm of his chair next to Jeanette. “And John: I hear you’re off to your sister’s, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Sherlock was complaining… saying.”

“First time ever, she’s cleaned up her act,” John nodded. “In fact, the uh, the kids are coming with. Yeah. They were really keen on meeting Harry for some reason. And y’know, I figured why not, now that she’s off the booze.”

“Nope,” Sherlock the Killer of Good News let out.

John craned his neck around at the other man. “Shut up, Sherlock.”

“I see you’ve got a new boyfriend, Molly,” Sherlock changed the subject abruptly. “And you’re serious about him.”

The woman blinked in surprise. “Sorry, what?”

“INCORRECT.” Scottie stood up on the sofa, drawing all the attention in the room to himself for the third and final heroic attempt of the evening. “The present at the top of her bag is for you, Sherlock, and it’s merely all nice and presentable because Molly is a hella good wrapper. Scottie: 1, Sherlock: 0. Boom. Nailed it.” Scottie held out a sock-clad hand to the side for Emily to high five. Instead she stared back at it blankly for a minute. Sherlock made a face and got up to see for himself.

“What the hell was that for?” Emily whispered.

“What?” Scottie shot back. “I saved Molly from further harassment.”

“Which Sherlock would’ve given a heartfelt apology for upon realizing his mistake,” Emily pointed out. “And then kissed her cheek. Which he now won’t be doing.”

Sherlock flipped open the card and stared down at it blankly for a moment. “Oh.”

“Oh indeed,” Molly said, still looking embarrassed to a degree.

“So it was for you, wasn’t it?” Lestrade mused. “Damn! Sherlock was out-deduced by the runt.” He clapped his hands together several times in a weak applause. “Bravo, Captain Sockarms.”

“Oh, shut it,” Sherlock hissed.

Scottie smirked and shot a sidelong glance at Emily. “Well would you look at that. My superhero secret identity is catching on.”

“You’re a fucking dork,” she informed him. And then louder to Sherlock: “Great, so now that you admit that you were wrong and would’ve proceeded to spew out a shit ton of horrible insults if Scottie hadn’t beaten you to the punchline, why don’t you instead consider thanking Molly with a hug.”

Sherlock squinted back at Emily. “Why should I do that?”

“He doesn’t have to,” Molly tried. “Really. He doesn’t. I don’t… It’s okay. I get it.”

Emily threw her head back in a sigh. “Okay, allow me to rephrase: it’s fucking Christmas Eve, and Molly got you a gift. NOW SAY THANK YOU AND HUG HER OR I WILL GET UP OFF THIS SOFA AND PERSONALLY KICK YOU IN THE NUTS.” Most of the people in the room stared back at the girl in shock. Lestrade, on the other hand, cupped a hand over his mouth and snorted. “I mean it,” Emily pressed.

“Fine. Whatever.” Sherlock shook himself off before looking Molly in the eyes. “Thanks.”

“BOOOO!” Emily jeered from the couch, taking off one of Scottie’s socks and flinging it at Sherlock. Scottie squealed and attempted to shove the girl off the arm of the couch but she put a leg down just in time, steadying herself. “You call that a sincere thank you?” she went on. “Again! But this time like you mean it!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sherlock whined. “Molly… thank you for your gift.”

“Y-You’re welcome,” Molly said softly. Sherlock put his arms out and Molly awkwardly stepped forward into the embrace.

“Now kiss,” Emily whispered.

“What, do you ship them or something?” Scottie asked skeptically.

“No,” Emily said defensively. “I’m just trying to put right what you fucked up.”

The Irene text tone that was no longer actually Irene went off from Sherlock’s pocket. Molly pulled back in shock. “No! That wasn’t… I-I didn’t…”

“No, it was me,” Sherlock said, which only confused several of them even more.

“My God, really?” Lestrade gaped.

“What?!” Molly managed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clarifying: “My phone. You should hear the tones the children have programmed for themselves.”

“Mine’s just me yelling SHERLOCK LOOK AT YOUR FUCKING PHONE,” Scottie told Mrs. Hudson, who was the nearest person to him aside from Emily. “Simple and straight to the point.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it,” their landlady answered bitterly. “I’m not kidding about the soap thing, you know.”

“Fifty-seven?” John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced up from his phone momentarily at the doctor. “Sorry, what?”

“Fifty-seven of those texts,” John went on. “The ones I’ve heard.”

“Thrilling that you’ve been counting,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes back on the device. The man walked over to the mantelpiece and pulled a little red box from it, which he took into the kitchen with a distracted “‘Scuse me.”

John’s gaze followed Sherlock as he went by. “What… What’s up, Sherlock?”

“I said excuse me.”

“D’you ever reply?”

Emily clapped her hands together excitedly and stood up. “Whelp, now that that awkwardness it out of the way with, it’s time for Christmas Bingo!” She bent over and picked up stack of papers from the coffee table. “I’ve got the cards right here. How it works is each of you are gonna get one of these - here, Scottie, help me pass them out - and I’m going to go shuffle a playlist over the stereo with all of the Christmas songs you’ll see on your cards.” As she said this John got up distractedly and went into the kitchen after his flatmate. She stared after him with a pout. “Wow okay fuck you John. ANYWAY, when a song comes on that you have on your Bingo sheet, you’re going to cross it off. The first person to get five in a row wins. Easy enough?”

“Um, are we going to get pencils for this?” asked Jeanette.

“Yes,” Emily answered. “Obviously.”

“They’re over here,” Scottie said, getting a wad of pencils that had been rubber banded together for the occasion, taking one and passing it along.

Emily looked around at the guests. “Anything else before I start?”

Lestrade raised his hand slightly. “Yeah, uh, is there a prize? If you win, I mean.”

“Um. I… I wasn’t on planning on it?”

“But there has to be a prize,” Lestrade argued. “Otherwise what’s the point?”

“You mean besides the fact that it’s fun and I’m an amazing party games host?” Emily crossed her arms and thought for a second. “I guess you can go last in the white elephant gift exchange or something.”

“Okay, follow up question,” Lestrade went on. “What’s a… white elephant gift exchange?”

The girl stared back at the DI in disbelief. “You’re shitting me. Didn’t you bring a white elephant gift? You all brought one right?” Emily looked around all at the blank faces. “Seriously? Did no one get my email?”

“I… I brought something for it?” Molly offered, starting to dig into the bag she brought.

“And in conclusion, that’s why Molly is my favorite,” sighed Emily. “The rest of your generation is hopeless.”

“I told you this was a waste of time,” Scottie muttered.

“You shut the fuck up.”

“I still need a Bingo card,” John said from the doorway. Apparently his attempt to talk with Sherlock hasn’t gone very well.

“Of course you do,” Emily said flatly. “Scottie, please fetch the man one of the extras.”

Mrs. Hudson won the game of Bingo, but only because people kept having to tell her when she was allowed to check things off of her card. Halfway through the game Sherlock left the flat without much of a word in edgewise, and at some point John disappeared into the hallway to take a call. Unfortunately not enough people brought along something to contribute to a white elephant gift exchange, so instead Emily had them play musical chairs with Christmas music, Christmas movie-themed charades tournament, and when she was all out of ideas, a round of Mafia, which she had altered to use the roles of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, Santa, and Frosty the Snowman. It didn’t make a lot of sense but the BBC characters were generally pretty good sports about the whole thing.

It was around midnight by the time everyone but Mrs. Hudson, John, Jeanette, and the teens had left. Jeanette waited around on the couch while Emily and Scottie walked around picking up bits of food and wrapping paper that had fallen to the floor. John was on the phone with Mycroft.

“Shit,” John mumbled, holding the phone down and looking round for Mrs. Hudson. “He’s coming. Ten minutes.”

“There’s nothing in the bedroom,” the landlady informed him from the hall.

John held up his phone again. “Looks like he’s clean. We’ve tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight’s a danger night? ....I’ve got plans. Mycroft. M--” The man pursed his lips as the line assumedly went dead. Standing up, John went over to his girlfriend, who was still sitting stiffly at the other end of the room. “I am really sorry,” he told Jeanette.

“You know, my friends are so wrong about you,” the woman told him with a hint of disdain.

“Hm?”

“You’re a great boyfriend.”

John let out a sigh of relief. “Okay, that’s good. I mean, I always thought I was great.”

“And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man,” Jeanette went on.

“Jeanette, please--”

“No, I mean it. It’s heartwarming. You’ll do anything for him - even raise a couple of kids together and try to pass it off like it’s not weird or anything!”

“It’s just as well,” Scottie muttered to Emily from the kitchen doorway. “Out of all the ladies John brought home, she wasn’t one of my favorites.”

“I miss Sarah,” Emily agreed. “She took me to a spa once.”

“Don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes,” Jeanette hissed, reaching the door.

“I’ll walk your dog for you,” begged John. “Hey, I’ve said it now. I’ll even walk your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog!”

John went pale at this news just before shutting his eyes in defeat. “No, because that was… the last one. Okay.”

“Jesus!” Jeanette retrieved her bag and stormed out of the flat.

“I’ll call you,” John tried.

“No!”

“Okay.”

There was a brief pause before John turned to face Emily and Scottie, who started a slow and sarcastic clap. Mrs. Hudson was standing between them both with a sympathetic look. “That wasn’t very good, was it?”

“Hey…” Realizing that no one else was going to, Scottie came up to John. “Are you…?”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah. I… I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“It’s fine,” shrugged Scottie. “I’ve seen enough movies to get the whole touchy heterosexual bit. Speaking of movies, it’s Christmas Eve - Christmas Day, technically - and you promised to watch Frozen with us.”

“I did promise that, didn’t I?” John exhaled, allowing the boy to lead him to the sofa.

“Oh yeah, did you want to watch too?” Emily asked Mrs. Hudson.

The landlady looked surprised by the offer. “It’s nearly one in the morning!” she exclaimed. “Some of us have to sleep, you know.”

“But as you just pointed out, it’s officially Christmas,” whined Emily. “And I wanted to spend it as a family, but then Sherlock left and…”

“Oh, alright,” the woman gave in. “But just this once.”

“Yee!” Emily took Mrs. Hudson by her hand and pulled her across the living room happily.

They were only a little more than five minutes into the movie, cuddled up together on the couch and watching Scottie’s laptop from where it was propped up on the coffee table, when Sherlock entered the room and hovered in the doorway for much longer than usual.

“Oh, hi,” John said, glancing up at the man. “You okay?”

“We’re watching a movie,” Mrs. Hudson informed him. “Something about ice.”

“Frozen,” Emily clarified.

Scottie leaned forward to pause the film. “You should join us,” he suggested. “It’s barely started. You haven’t missed much of anything except for the childhood sequence.”

“Pass,” Sherlock said disinterestedly, and he walked past them and through the kitchen door on his way to his bedroom. “Hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time.”

“Merry fucking Christmas to you too,” Scottie pouted, resuming Frozen.

\---

Scottie peered into the side mirror and grimaced. “Um. Emily, you hear that siren right behind us?”

“I’m aware.”

Emily kept her eyes on the road, perhaps silently praying that so long as she didn’t acknowledge the presence of the police car that had been tailing them for the past block and half, it would eventually get bored of waiting for her to stop and go bother someone else.

“I just think it might be wise to pull over. Just… Just throwing that out there,” Scottie commented with a sense of urgency in his voice.

“Ugh. Fine.”

In another minute or so Emily had turned off onto a side street and parked the vehicle. The police car followed suit just behind them. Emily adjusted her shirt to an optimal amount of cleavage and then rolled down her window as a man stepped out of the police car. She practiced her most innocent smile in the mirror a couple times before he approached.

“Is there a problem offi--oh, hello there, Detective Inspector!” the girl greeted him, frantically pulling her shirt up again. “I didn’t know you worked traffic regulation.”

“I make exceptions for particularly bad drivers.” Emily’s smile faded at this, and Lestrade crossed his arms. “Can I see your license and registration?”

“Even better.” Emily dug around her purse and handed the DI the stapled together papers that were her learner’s permit. Lestrade unfolded his arms again to flip through the permit with an unamused face. After a couple seconds he handed it back and Emily tucked it away.

Lestrade wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t know you could drive.”

“Well now you know. I can.”

“Barely. Is this your car?”

“Molly’s,” Emily explained calmly. “Sherlock and John don’t have their own, nor the cash to get me a proper instructor, so. She lets me take it out to get practice if she’s gonna be stuck at work all day anyway. I return the favor with catsitting offers she has yet to take me up on.”

“Molly Hooper?”

“The one and only.”

“And I assume Scottie has a license?”

“Nope! Not even a permit!” the boy beamed.

Emily shot him a disapproving glare. “Don’t tell him that, dummy!”

“What? Why not?”

“So you are aware that you must be accompanied by a licensed driver in the passenger seat,” Lestrade mused. “Interesting. And are you also aware you were going 40 on a freeway?”

“Yes, but the limit was like, 60, so I definitely wasn’t speeding,” Emily defended herself. “Also I got off the freeway a while ago. Just how long were you following me, exactly?”

“Going too slow is just as dangerous,” Scottie tutted, “which I keep telling her is why cars are always going around us. Probably think she’s elderly or drunk or something.”

“Now now, Scottie, I don’t think the man really needs you to go into detail on that,” Emily laughed nervously.

Scottie laughed along, but in more of a mocking sort of way. “Oh, and don’t even get me started on how long it’s taking her to get accustomed to British rules of the road! She’s continually cutting off cars trying to do backwards U-turns and--”

“Scottie!” Emily thwapped her friend with a rolled up permit. She turned to Lestrade again with her most winning smile. “Whelp, if that’s all, Inspector, we’ll just be on our way. Send Scotland Yard our love!”

“Hey, now wait just a--”

But before Lestrade could stop them Emily was already driving away at an very safe speed of just about 25 mph. With an exasperated sigh Lestrade hopped back into his own vehicle, turned on the police siren, and trailed after the delinquents.

Scottie and Emily pulled up in front of Baker Street and got out of the vehicle. Lestrade once again parked directly behind and met them just before the steps to 221. “Can I trust you to give this to one of your dads or should I go in there myself?” Lestrade asked, holding out a ticket.

Emily snatched it with a sour look. “We can give to them.”

“You’re lucky I’m not going to take away your learner’s permit,” threatened Lestrade. “Driving is a big responsibility and if you have no intention of following the rules like that…”

“Yes, I get it,” the girl groaned. “Driving is a privilege that can be taken away at any point, yadda yadda yadda. Isn’t there, I don’t know, a murder investigation or something going on right now that might be a better use of your time?”

“When you return Miss Hooper’s car, make sure you’re accompanied by Sherlock or John. And, um… Say hi to them for me, would you?” On that note, Lestrade turned to leave.

“Well. You’re getting better, if it’s any consolation?” Scottie tried. Emily ignored him as she locked the car with a button and put the keys into the door in front of them. “And - And you did a really nice parallel parking job just now! I mean, even I was impressed, and that’s saying something.”

“I can’t believe Lestrade actually wrote me up a ticket,” the girl muttered half to herself as the two of them began to ascend the stairs to the flat. “I know he wasn’t exactly big on the idea of us at first but like, aren’t we friends now? He wouldn’t have written Sherlock a ticket if he were in my position!”

“Except that Sherlock is over twenty-one himself,” Scottie pointed out.

“I know that!”

They’d reached the top of the stairs now and saw that the door was already cracked open slightly. Emily swung it open the rest of the way and took a wide step inside before suddenly stopping again. Scottie collided directly into her backside with an “Oof!”

“Okay you’ve got to stop doing that,” he said wrinkling his nose and stepping back again. Only then did Scottie, too, see the man standing in front of the fireplace with a sobbing Mrs. Hudson seated in front of him, a gun pointed at the back of her head. He recognized the American as the same man who had led the group in the raid on Irene’s house. Two other gentlemen were positioned about the room: one was standing near the window and another hovered in the kitchen doorway. “Oh. Hello,” Scottie managed.

“We should’ve invited Lestrade in,” Emily whispered.

“Basically yes.”

The man in charge of the break-in exhaled, lowering his gun only slightly. “Not who I was hoping for,” he admitted, “but happy to have you join the party none the less.”

“Is it a party though?” Scottie asked weakly. “I mean, from where I’m standing this looks strictly business related, and I forgot to wear my suit. So.”

“Have a seat,” the other American instructed.

“You look busy,” Scottie tried. “Maybe Emily and I could get out of your--” The man held out his weapon again, this time pointing it in the direction of the two teenagers. Scottie swallowed. “Yeah no okay we can do it that way too.”

Silently regretting not having gone to return Molly’s car before coming here, they shuffled over to the couch uneasily and plopped down in the middle of it. The both remained tense and a silence hung over the flat. Scottie folded his hands together and glanced around at the three intruders.

“So. Um. Does anyone know any good jokes, or…?”

“Scottie,” Emily hissed through gritted teeth.

The leader nodded towards the man at the window, who took several steps in their direction until he was practically looming over them. Scottie and Emily both fixed their eyes on their laps.

“Right,” the boy mumbled. “Sorry. Shutting up now.”

Luckily it wasn’t too much longer until Sherlock did show up, and when he did Mrs. Hudson let out a wail. “Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!”

“Don’t snivel, Mrs. Hudson,” the newcomer told her, looking stiff. “It’ll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet. What a tender world that would be.”

“Oh, please, sorry, Sherlock,” whimpered Mrs. Hudson.

“Why are they here?” Sherlock asked with a nod to Scottie and Emily.

“Wrong place wrong time,” answered the American. “A specialty of theirs, I’d imagine. I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then why don’t you ask for it?” Taking several steps into the room, Sherlock held out a hand to Mrs. Hudson. As soon as she took it, he pulled back her sleeve to have a look at her injuries.

“Sher…”

“I’ve been asking this one,” the man said. “She doesn’t seem to know anything.”

“Probably would’ve had more luck asking the kids,” Sherlock said calmly, still holding Mrs. Hudson’s hand. “They always seem to know more than is expected of them.”

“But you know what I’m asking for don’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock let go and straightened himself again. “I believe I do.”

“Oh, please, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson let out again.

“First, get rid of your boys.”

“Why?”

“I dislike being outnumbered. I makes for too much stupid in the room.”

“But you’re not outnumbered,” the man reminded him with an ever so slight nod of his head towards the onlookers at the other end of the room.

Sherlock smiled, but only just. “They don’t count.”

Although hesitant, the other man eventually said “You two, go to the car.”

“Then get into the car and drive away,” Sherlock added. “Don’t try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn’t work.” He waited until the others had left the flat before continuing: “Next you can stop pointing that gun at me.”

“So you can point a gun at me?”

Sherlock put his arms out to the side. “I’m unarmed.”

“Mind if I check?”

“Oh, I insist.”

“Don’t do anything,” Mrs. Hudson begged, watching as the man circled around her and came towards Sherlock.

But Sherlock did do something. In fact, he did it so fast that it was difficult for the witnesses to later describe even what he had done, except that it involved spraying something into the man’s eyes and then headbutting him as he stumbled back. Scottie and Emily let out a simultaneous yelp and dove in different directions away from the couch just as the man fell backwards over the coffee table and landed right where they’d been sitting moments ago. He didn’t appear to be conscious anymore.

Sherlock grinned triumphantly and tossed his spray can into the air, catching it. “Moron.” Sherlock then slammed the can down onto the coffee table and hurried over to Mrs. Hudson and dropped to his knees in front of her.

“Oh, thank you,” Mrs. Hudson said tearfully.

“Don’t worry about us,” Emily called out. “We’re… We’re fine.”

“You’re all right now,” Sherlock stroked the woman’s face gently, “you’re alright.”

“Yes.”

“Scottie, fetch my duct tape,” Sherlock instructed without turning around. “Bedroom, second drawer to the right.”

“Aye aye captain!”

“What about me?” asked Emily.

Sherlock stood up again and went over to the table by the window. He scribbled something in marker over a piece of paper and handed it to the girl. “Tape this to the front door.”

“Crime in progress: please disturb,” she read. “I love it.”

When Emily returned from doing what Sherlock had asked, she found Sherlock had put the man in the chair where Mrs. Hudson was previously. She could now see that blood was dripping down his face and from his chin. Scottie came in from the kitchen and handed Sherlock a roll of duct tape, which Sherlock took silently and began securing the villain to the chair. Once he had finished, Sherlock took a seat in a nearby chair. He kept the gun he’d confiscated aimed at its owner with one hand and held a phone up to his ear with the other. Scottie and Emily joined Mrs. Hudson back on the couch.

“What’s going on?” John asked, suddenly in the doorway. He scanned his eyes across the room, stopping once he’d reached the man who was currently bound and gagged in front of the fireplace and now conscious again. “Jeez. What the hell is happening?”

“Mrs. Hudson’s been attacked by an American. I’m restoring balance to the universe,” explained Sherlock coolly.

Without a second though John came scurrying over to Mrs. Hudson at sat down at her side opposite of the kids. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson, my God. Are you alright? Jesus, what have they done to you?”

Mrs. Hudson immediately broke down crying again. “Oh, I’m just being so silly,” she whimpered, trying to cover her face with her hands.

“No, no,” John cooed, pulling her closer.

Emily leaned forward. “We’re fine too, thanks for asking.”

Sherlock stood up now. “Downstairs. Take her downstairs and look after her. In fact, take the children with you.”

“Alright, it’s alright,” John said, helping Mrs. Hudson to her feet. “I’ll have a look at that.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” the landlady insisted. She walked past John and out of the room.

John turned to Sherlock. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“I expect so. Now go.” John started to leave and Sherlock turned his head to Scottie and Emily, who were now standing but otherwise hadn’t budged. “You too. I mean it.” The detective waved his gun in the direction of the door and they reluctantly saw themselves out, stopping once they’d gone through the doorway just long enough to hear Sherlock say into the phone, “Lestrade. We’ve had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance. Oh, no no no no no, we’re fine. No, it’s the, uh, it’s the burglar. He’s got himself rather badly injured. Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull… suspected punctured lung. He fell out of a window.”

Scottie snickered. “Shh, go!” Emily hissed under her breath, nudging him down the stairs. Instead of joining John and Mrs. Hudson in their landlady’s flat, they waited for Lestrade and his men to arrive outside the building, cringing when they heard the nearby sound of the man’s body being thrown from the above story and onto Mrs. Hudson’s trash bins.

“Over there,” Scottie told several of the officers with a point upon their arrival.

After coming back from taking a look at the man himself, Lestrade stopped in front of them both and folded his arms. “Geez. I can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?”

“Apparently not,” Emily replied. “You were probably only just driving away when Scottie and I went in there to find three armed strangers in the flat. It’s a miracle nobody got shot.”

Lestrade squinted. “You didn’t tell Sherlock I was with you just before the incident, did you?”

“Of course not. Not YET, anyway. I do still have to give him that ticket you wrote up, though, and it’s got the time and your signature and everything.” The DI held out a hand unhappily and Emily gave him back the ticket, which he ripped up. Emily tilted her head towards Scottie with a smirk. “Like a boss.”

Not a moment too soon, Sherlock came down from the flat and Scottie and Emily parted to let him through. “There you are,” Lestrade grunted. “And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?”

“It’s all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count.”

Without a word, Lestrade walked away and Sherlock went back inside. The teens followed him into 221A, where they found Mrs. Hudson and John sitting at a small kitchen table.

“She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight,” John told him. “We need to look after her.”

“No,” Mrs. Hudson disagreed.

“Of course, but she’s fine.”

“No, she’s not,” John argued. “Look at her. She’s got to take some time away from Baker Street. She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock helped himself to a slice of pie in Mrs. Hudson’s bridge and kicked the door shut again. “Don’t be absurd.”

“She’s in shock, for God’s sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone! Where is it, anyway?”

“Safest place I know.” Wiping crumbs from his mouth, Sherlock looked down at Mrs. Hudson, who reached into her bra and handed the phone to Sherlock.

“You left it in the pocket of your second best dressing gown, you clot,” she said with a laugh. “I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry.”

Sherlock tossed the phone into the air and caught it before tucking it away again into his coat pocket. “Thank you.” And then to John: “Shame on you, John Watson.”

John looked appalled at the comment. “Shame on me?!”

“Yes, shame on you,” Scottie repeated for him. “Dishonor on you, dishonor on your family, dishonor on your cow.”

“M-My what?”

“Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street?” scoffed Sherlock. “England would fall.” The detective put a protective arm around Mrs. Hudson and pulled her into a side hug. She laughed and stroked at his hand and John smiled at them both.

“Okay no this is touching and all but seriously, what is Sherlock eating and can I have some of that?” Emily asked, already getting into the fridge.

\---

Time passed. John had started threatening to put the kids in school again to keep them from lounging about the flat all day being unproductive, and they eventually compromised by installing a landline, which Scottie and Emily were to take turns answering and keeping up with Sherlock’s website, taking down names and cases for Sherlock to eventually look into when he was feeling up to it. Every so often they would go out and attempt to solve said cases themselves, but their successes were typically limited to finding lost animals and exposing cheating spouses.

One particular afternoon John was sitting in his armchair reading when said phone went off. He looked up at Scottie expectantly, who climbed over the coffee table from the couch, did a summersault over to the table by the window, and then got up to answer it.

“Heeeello?”

“Yes hello, is this Papa John’s?” Emily, who was the one on the other line, asked from where she was sitting on the steps just outside the room.

“NO THIS IS PATRICK.” Scottie yelled into the receiver before slamming it down again.

John flailed and dropped his book off on the nearby smaller table as he got up and came over to the boy. “Scottie!” he gasped. “You can’t just hang up on clients!” The phone rang a second time and the doctor shoved Scottie out of the way, this time picking it up himself. “Hello?”

“I’d like a large pepperoni with olives on one side,” Emily said.

“W-What?”

“Papa John’s?”

“I… Hang on a minute.” Not hanging up just yet, John set the phone down on the table and stepped forward just enough so that he could now see Emily through the doorway. The girl glanced up from over her shoulder, let out a yelp, and then scurried further down the stairs. John pursed his lips together and hung up the phone.

“I love you but you’re terrible at what you do and I’d fire the both of you if I could.” He went to fetch his coat and started out the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” Scottie called after him.

“Grocery shopping. Between the four of us there’s never any goddamn milk in this place. Don’t leave the flat, don’t let anyone into the flat, for the love of God don’t do anything that could cause you to burn down the flat, and also while you’re at it, you’re not allowed to use the phone anymore.” John took his keys from where they’d been set down nearby and went through the doorway. He then paused and looked back at Scottie. “If anything happens Mrs. Hudson’s in charge, but I’m also a phone call away.”

“You literally just told me we’re banned from using the phone,” Scottie argued.

Ignoring him, John started down the stairs, passing by a guilty looking Emily on his way out of the building. Once the front door had shut behind him, Emily got up out of the armchair in the lobby and went to join Scottie in 221B.

“Someone doesn’t have a sense of humor,” she muttered upon entering the room. She opened her mouth to say something else, but before the girl had a chance she and Scottie heard something clanking around in the kitchen.

Scottie made a face. “Um. Didn’t Mrs. Hudson say something about thinking there was a family of raccoons going through her bins?”

“Sounds like an awfully big raccoon.” Emily crept closer to the entrance to the flat’s kitchen, only relaxing when she got close enough to see in. “Oh. It’s just Irene breaking in through the window.”

“I assumed you’d be at school or something,” the intruder admitted.

“A mistake so many trespassers seem to be making as of late. So what brings you here?”

“What brought you?” Irene threw back playfully.

Scottie shifted his eyes over to Emily before answering. “We… live here?”

“But you didn’t always.”

“Unlike you, we weren’t on the run from anybody,” Emily said.

Irene pursed her lips into a sly smile. “See, now if you already knew what I was doing here then why did you bother asking?”

“Um. Common courtesy?”

“Mm. I bet. Now tell me, is Sherlock around?”

“Evidently not,” answered Scottie. “I’d call him for you, except that I’m still unclear as to whether or not I’m actually banned from using the phone.”

Irene nodded slowly. “I’ll wait then.”

Emily leaned a hip against the doorframe. “Okay then. So, uh, while you wait… Do you want anything to drink? Maybe we could play cards, or paint each other’s nails or something…?”

“I’m actually quite tired,” the other woman replied. “Think I might just take a quick nap if that’s alright with you.”

“Oh. I… I suppose that’s fine.”

“Aren’t you worried about… y’know, the people after you?” asked Scottie.

“With you two here to protect me? Not even a little bit.” With a half-smile, Irene went into the hall in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. Scottie and Emily exchanged glances. With a shrug, they both went back to the living room and started to set up Mario Kart.

Sherlock came home before John and was almost immediately struck by a hurled Wii remote with a plastic steering wheel attached, which he narrowly avoided.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Scottie spat. “You lose four tournaments in a row and what do you know, it’s time to start breaking controllers in a temper tantrum!”

“That’s because you cheated,” Emily threw back stubbornly.

“I did not cheat. It’s impossible to cheat in Mario Kart.”

“I kept going back and forth between the first and the last few, and then, the ONE time I’m actually in first at the end of the final lap, you HAD to go and hit me with a freaking blue shell!”

“Good to know nothing’s changed around here,” Sherlock said sarcastically, taking a cautious step into the flat.

“Yeah, about that…” Scottie trailed off, watching the detective as he went into the kitchen and stopped to examine the window. Like a dog, Sherlock began sniffing at the air and followed a seemingly invisible trail towards his bedroom just as John came back with his hands full of shopping bags.

“Well what are you two gawking at?” he asked the kids. “Help me put this stuff away.”

“Fine,” said Emily said, getting up to take one of the grocery bags from him, “but you should know that Sherlock has a surprise waiting for you in the bedroom.”

“H-He does?” John looked around the room at then back at Emily, not entirely sure what to do with this information. He handed off two of his bags and set the rest down, venturing towards the kitchen. “I’ll, um. I’ll be right back.”

Scottie shut off the TV and helped Emily take the groceries into the kitchen. They had just started dumping the contents of the bags out onto the already cluttered table when Sherlock and John came into the room together.

“I thought I told you not to let anyone in the flat” were the first words out of John’s mouth.

“She let herself in,” Scottie clarified. “More specifically, through the window.”

“Why didn’t you tell us as soon as this happened?” interrogated Sherlock.

“Because John said we were indefinitely banned from using phones.”

The detective squinted at Scottie and then John.

“Don’t worry about it,” the other man said defensively.

Sherlock squinted harder. “Why would you--”

“I said don’t worry about it.”

A silence fell over the four of them. Emily placed her hands on her hips and looked around at the boys in the room with her. “So anyway. Care to wait around for your lady friend to come to over Super Smash Bros. Brawl?”

John made a face. “I’m sorry?”

“That fighting game they like,” Sherlock answered rather quickly.

“You know what video games they play?”

“I know we only bought them two for Christmas, and if it’s not the racing game then it’s obviously the fighting one.”

“One of your more clever deductions, I assume,” John mocked. “Anyway, I suppose if we’re going to be waiting around for… well…” John motioned to Sherlock’s bedroom. “Then we might as well pass the time with something, and their suggestion is as good as any.”

“Not exactly my thing,” Sherlock shrugged. “Games on the telly, that is. Or really any games that require only the mindless bashing of controls and no real stimulation.”

“That’s code for he’s afraid of losing and embarrassing himself,” Emily told Scottie and John matter-of-factly.

Scottie snickers. “Well what do you know. Something you two have in common.”

Emily furrowed her eyebrows at her friend. “Hardy-har-har. Why don’t you go set the console up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“...get the other remote from the bottom of the stairs.”

“Because you’re a what…?”

“Because fuck you, that’s why.” With a flip of her hair, Emily disappeared around the corner.

Scottie cupped his hands over his mouth, calling out “The words I was looking for were ‘sore loser’!” When she didn’t answer, he shrugged carelessly and went to change out the Wii’s disc.

After having retrieved the remote she’d thrown, Emily came back in the living room to find John and Scottie already crouched in front of the TV, and Scottie was bringing the game to its main menu. Emily popped the Wii remote out of its plastic steering wheel case and handed it to John, getting another one for herself from a bin beside the TV. Sherlock came into the room moments later and stood behind the ensemble.

“Changed your mind?” Scottie asked, looking up at the man.

“I’ll watch.”

“No you won’t.” Emily tossed yet another Wii remote at Sherlock, who caught it without so much as a flinch. “All in our all out, buddy.” 

And so Scottie and Emily did miraculously manage to talk the others into joining them in Super Smash Bros. Brawl, a game Emily was considerably better at and Sherlock kept having issues figuring out the controls to.

“What the… Where did my character go?!” the detective asked furiously. He was now cross-legged on the floor and crowded around the TV just like everyone else.

“You died three times,” John explained, eyes not leaving the screen. “That means you’re out of the round.”

“Since when did you become the expert on a kids’ video game?” Sherlock scowled.

“Since I just killed you, apparently.”

Sherlock exhaled rather loudly and set down his remote. He then thought he heard something from the other room and got up to investigate.

“She’s awake?” John asked, pausing the game.

“Oi! Rude!” Emily hit several buttons in succession, trying to unpause it again without any success.

“Using my shower, apparently,” Sherlock informed his flatmate. “Same as everyone else in this building aside from Mrs. Hudson, despite having their own that I’m fairly certain works just as well.”

John let out a thoughtful humming noise before going back to the game without warning.

“You did that on purpose!” Emily gasped, her character having just been knocked from a cliff by John’s when she wasn’t ready to resume just yet.

“Well I’m glad you lot are so easily distracted,” Sherlock sighed, retreating to his computer.

Less than a half hour later Irene emerged from the bathroom, her hair down and wet and wearing Sherlock’s bathroom. “I wasn’t aware there was a party going on,” the woman mused, looking round the room from Sherlock, hunched over his computer, to Scottie, John, and Emily, who had just been pushing one another over with their elbows trying to block the screen from the others.

“Were you not?” Sherlock asked, glancing up. “I’d have guessed that was why you invited yourself over.”

Irene took a seat in John’s armchair and crossed her legs. “I admit, I always was curious as to what went on behind the scenes in the Holmes-Watson household. So I take it you’re the fun dad” - Irene pointed to John as she said this and then to Sherlock - “and you’re the hardworking mother figure?” Sherlock shot her a look to which Irene pursed her lips into a smile. “Please. You know I’m only teasing. I’m sure you both make excellent mothers.”

“Excuse me a minute.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock stood up and came over to the TV. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he said, looming over the three of them, “our guest has come out you’re all being terribly rude by ignoring her.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” purred Irene.

“We’re just going to finish this round,” John told Sherlock without looking up.

Sherlock frowned and came in front of them, which caused the entire group to begin to make whining noise. “False,” he said flatly, hitting a button to turn off the TV.

“But I nearly won that one!” Emily wailed, falling backwards so that she was sprawled across the floor.

“That’s what you think,” John muttered pridefully.

“Enough games. Miss Adler, would you care to take this to the table?”

“I suppose that could be arranged.” Irene stood again and relocated to the kitchen table, Sherlock just behind her and being trailed by the disappointed looking remainder of the group.

“So who’s after you?” asked Sherlock, pulling out a chair for himself.

“People who want to kill me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Killers,” Irene answered nonchalantly.

“It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific,” John said, sitting besides Sherlock now and across from Scottie and Emily.

“So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them.”

“Who around here hasn’t?” Emily muttered. Suddenly all eyes were on her questioningly. “...wanted to fake their own death?” she quickly tacked onto the end of her comment. “I mean. C’mon. Sneaking into your own funeral Tom Sawyer-style? How awesome would that be?”

“It worked for a while,” Irene went on, getting back on topic.

“Except you let John know that you were alive, and therefore all four of us.”

“I knew you’d keep my secret, and they have no one else to tell.”

“Well she’s not wrong,” Scottie admitted.

“You couldn’t,” Sherlock pointed out.

“But you did, didn’t you?” Irene pressed. “Where’s my camera phone?”

“It’s not here,” John told her, not even knowing for himself of the phone’s whereabouts. “We’re not stupid.”

Irene wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. “Then what have you done with it? If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.”

“If they’ve been watching me, they’ll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago.”

“I need it.”

“Well, we can’t just go and get it, can we?” offered John. “Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart’s; then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the cafe, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back.”

Sherlock smiled. “Very good, John. Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions.”

“Thank you. So why don’t...” John looked proud of himself for all of two seconds before Sherlock took the camera phone in question out of his own jacket pocket. Irene stood up upon seeing the phone. “Oh, for…”

“You sound surprised,” Emily commented, leaning over the table with her chin in her hand.

“So what do you keep on here?” Sherlock examined the phone. “In general, I mean?”

“Pictures, information, anything I might find useful.”

“GIFs of cats being dumb,” Scottie guessed.

“Naughty fanfiction,” Emily added to the list.

“Funny cat videos.”

“Selfies.”

“Cat memes.”

Emily turned her head to Scottie with raised eyebrows. “Okay, seriously?”

“Cats falling off of things and trying to make it look like they did it on purpose is God’s gift to mankind,” Scottie defended himself.

“How exactly would I find any of those things useful?” Irene questioned, squinting at them both.

“Rule number one: never take anything Scottie or Emily says seriously,” John sighed. “Now tell me, this… whatever it is - it’s for blackmail, then?”

“For protection,” the woman corrected him. “I make my way in the world. I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.”

“So how do you acquire this information?” interrogated Sherlock.

“I told you. I misbehave.”

“But you’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection. Do you know what it is?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand it.”

“I assumed. Show me.”

In response, Irene held out an expectant palm to Sherlock, who only held the phone further out of reach at this gesture.

“The passcode.”

But Irene didn’t budge, and Sherlock finally gave in and handed over the cell phone, which she held in such a way that he couldn’t see what she was putting into it. The phone made a beep and she frowned. “It’s not working.”

Sherlock stood and took the phone from her. “No, because it’s a duplicate that I had made, into which you’ve just entered the numbers one-oh-five-eight.” Sherlock strode into the living room and pulled forth the real phone from underneath a chair cushion. “I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway.”

The others followed him into the room as he inserted the passcode into the real phone. “I came very close to moving it to the other chair,” Emily admitted to Scottie. “But then I figured he’d probably notice and know that I knew.”

Scottie snorted. “Do you just get off on slightly fucking with people or…?”

“Don’t you?”

Sherlock looked down at the phone in disbelief, it having not worked with the new string of numbers.

“I told you that camera phone was my life,” Irene said, striding up to Sherlock. “I know when it’s in my hand.”

“Oh, you’re rather good,” Sherlock admitted, meeting her eyes.

“You’re not so bad,” the woman flirted back. Irene smirked and looked back into his eyes. In fact, one could assume they were pretty much having eye sex at this point.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Suddenly Scottie came forward and swooped in between Sherlock and Irene, snatching the phone from their hands. He inserted the correct passcode and then handed it back.

A stunned look came over everyone else in the room as they stared at him, mouths slightly ajar. Emily took a pillow from the side of the couch and pressed her face into it. “Oh my God Scottie no,” she moaned, the words coming out muffled against the object. “What the fuck were you thinking?!”

“The sexual tension was annoying the shit out of me,” he answered, seemingly unconcerned.

“YOU JUST RUINED EVERYTHING.”

“You don’t know that. It’s not like I’m actually going to tell him what it is or anything.”

“You’re such a douchecanoe!” Emily let out, launching the pillow at him. It completely missed and flopped onto the middle of the living room floor.

“Now hold on, how come he knew the passcode?” John demanded. The same exact question was obviously on the other’s minds as well, but they were apparently still too busy taking in what had just occurred to ask themselves. “Sherlock has had the phone for six months now - hell, he even had the thing x-rayed in a lab and came no closer to unlocking it! So one of you better explain how the FUCK Scottie was able to punch in the right digits on his FIRST ATTEMPT.”

The younger boy smiled weakly. “Um. Lucky guess?”

“We can figure out how he knew later,” Sherlock concluded, shaking his head.

“I think I have a right to know now,” protested Irene. “And the doctor makes an excellent point. As I have said many times before and will again, that camera phone is my life, and under no circumstances would I ever allow its passcode to be found out by some fifteen year old kid.”

“Eighteen, actually,” Scottie mumbled.

“I said we’ll get to the bottom of it later,” Sherlock went on. “I’m just as… intrigued as you are, but believe me when I say that stranger things have happened between those two. For now, let’s worry about the issue at hand.”

Irene wrinkled her nose before giving in. She held out the palm of her hand expectantly. “Very well. May I?” Sherlock gave her back the phone, which she took with her a short distance away and then handed back to the detective. “There was a man,” she told him. “An MOD official. I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn’t know it, but I photographed it.” Irene handed Sherlock the device. “He was a bit tied up at the time. It’s a bit small on the screen; can you read it?

Sherlock took the phone with him to the other side of the table and had a seat, John following him to have a look for himself. Scottie took the opportunity to slink back onto the couch.

“Told you it would work out,” he told Emily, sounding less confident than he had before.

The girl took a deep breath breath before replying: “You got lucky.”

“Yes,” Sherlock finally answered Irene.

“A code, obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it - though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out. What can you do Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock leaned forward, concentrating on the screen in front of him, as Irene hovered just over his shoulder seductively. “Go on,” she cooed. “Impress a girl.”

“Yup this is officially making me uncomfortable,” Scottie said, starting to leave.

“Where are you going?” Emily called after him.

“Back to 221C,” the boy answered without looking back.

“It’s unlike you to leave when there’s a case going on,” Emily pointed out worriedly.

“Yeah but this” - Scottie started walking backwards so that he could motion to the scene between Sherlock and Irene - “is not my division.”

“Suit yourself.” With a shrug, Emily came closer to John’s side to watch what was going on. Sherlock was halfway through his deduction when she tuned back in.

“These are seat allocations on a passenger jet,” Sherlock was explaining, showing John the picture for himself. “Look. There’s no letter ‘I’ because it can be mistaken for a ‘1’; no letters past ‘K’. The width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place: families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter ‘K’ or rows past fifty-five, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there’s the style of the flight number, zero zero seven, that eliminates a few more. And assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the 6:30 to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport.”

By this point Sherlock was on his feet again and handed the phone back to Irene. “Please don’t feel obligated to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John’s expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language.

Emily glanced up to see Scottie hovering in the doorway still. She came over to him. “I thought you said--”

“I made a genuine effort. What have I missed?”

“Sherlock figured out the plane thing,” Emily told him with a quick glance over her shoulder to see that none of the others were overhearing their conversation. “Which I too admit is a little hard to be in the presence of, knowing what we do now.”

“You’re right. But it’s not our place.” Scottie sighed, leaning up against the doorframe.

“Says the guy who just risked throwing off the rest of the episode by giving them the right passcode instead of waiting half a second longer for Irene to do it.”

“Shush. Don’t make this into a contest of who’s interrupted the original script most, because you’ve certainly had your fair share of incidents.”

“Pfft.” Emily folded her arms. “Like what?”

“Pool scene.”

“...oh yeah.”

Scottie looked over at Irene, who was typing something on her phone from behind her back so that the men wouldn’t notice.

“I really want to trust her,” Scottie sighed.

“I know. Me too. But.”

“I guess… sometimes knowing too much isn’t a good thing.”

“Feels like a test a lot of the time,” Emily commented. “And not an easy one to pass.”

“But we’re doing alright,” Scottie told her in such a way that almost sounded as if he were trying to convince himself of this.

Emily smiled back at him. “Yeah. Despite everything, we make a pretty good team.”

\---

Irene was gone the next morning. Sherlock didn’t seem to want to talk about it much, but they knew why even before he finally brought himself to fill at least John in on what had happened that night with Mycroft, and as such they all did their best to go on with their lives as ordinarily as they could given the circumstances, which got easier the more time went on.

A little over a week seemed to fly by in no time at all, at which point one might not have even guessed that the Irene ordeal had taken place. One particularly rainy evening Emily was sitting sideways in Sherlock’s chair while the detective himself toiled away at his microscope in the kitchen. Scottie was currently lying on his stomach in the middle of the floor with his laptop out in front of himself.

The landline went off for the first time in what seemed like ages and Emily excitedly flopped forward and pressed it up against her ear.

“Hello and welcome to Papa John’s, how can I help you?”

Mycoft Holmes’ response was entirely lacking amusement at her running gag. “Put John on the phone,” he instructed.

Emily tilted her head to the side. “Sir. Papa John is just a mascot and not a real person. Can I interest you in our two for one special?”

“I will have child services over there five minutes if I have to.”

“Yeah right. Legal adult, remember?”

“Oh so now you’re being Emily again?”

The girl’s smug look faded. “Shit. I mean sausage. Would you like John’s sausage? No, wait, that’s not what I…” Unable to successfully come up with a witty response, Emily melted into her seat shamefully and held the phone out into the air above her, shouting “John, it’s for you!”

On cue, the doctor came in from the kitchen and took the phone from her. “Yes?” he said into the receiver. “I… oh. Geez. Yeah, I’m sorry about that. If I knew how to get it to stop I would. Yes. I’ll be down in a minute.”

John hung up and disappeared down the stairs mere moments later. He was only absent from the flat long enough for Emily to finish an episode of Lost on her phone.

“Clearly you’ve got news,” Sherlock called out before John had even reentered the flat. “If it’s about the Leeds triple murder, it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring.”

John came in and poked his head around the corner into the kitchen. “Hi. Er, no, it’s, um… It’s about Irene Adler.”

Emily pulled her headphones out with one hand and looked over. Scottie had the same idea in mind and made a 180 in order to benefit his eavesdropping. He couldn’t see their faces from where he was against the ground, but he could hear the two of them well enough.

“Oh?” Sherlock asked with vague interest. “Something happened? Has she come back?”

“No. She’s, er…”

“She’s in America.”

“America?”

“Mm-hm,” John lied. “Got herself on a witness protection scheme, apparently. Dunno how she swung it, but, er, well, you know.”

“I know what?” asked Sherlock, who evidently did not know.

“Well. You won’t be able to see her again?”

“Why would I want to see her again?”

“Didn’t say you did,” John muttered.

There was a pause before: “Is that her file?”

“Yes. I was just gonna take it back to Mycroft. Do you want to…?”

“No.”

“Hm.”

More awkward silence. Scottie and Emily exchanged glances.

“Listen, actually…” John started.

“Oh, but I will have the camera phone, though.”

“There’s nothing on it anymore,” John told his flatmate. “It’s been stripped.”

“I know, but I… I’ll still have it.”

“I’ve gotta give this back to Mycroft,” John argued. “You can’t keep it. Sherlock. I have to give this to Mycroft. It’s the government’s now. I couldn’t even give…”

“Please,” Sherlock asked politely. John hesitated for a moment longer before giving up and putting the phone into Sherlock’s waiting hand. “Thank you.”

“Well. I’d better take this back.”

“Yes.”

John started to leave through the door connecting their kitchen to the hallway, but paused again before asking “Did she ever text you again, after… all that?”

“Once,” Sherlock told him. “A few months ago.”

“What did she say?”

“‘Goodbye, Mr. Holmes’.”

“Huh…” John came back into the living room. “You two are going to need to see about getting a real job sooner or later,” he told Emily and Scottie just before turning around to go out the side door for real. “Get off your comfortable arses for once in your life.” They didn’t answer and in another couple seconds he was gone again.

There was a long silence that followed. Scottie and Emily held their breaths.

“The woman,” Sherlock finally said to himself. “THE woman.”

Smiling, Scottie and Emily turned their heads to one another again from across the room and smiled. Scottie gave Emily a thumbs up, which she returned with a satisfied nod just before they went back to their electronics.


	5. The Hounds of Derpville

"C'mon, c'mon!" John said, clapping his hands together as he spoke. "Let's get a move on! You don't want to be late on your first day!" When neither occupants of the room budged, the doctor let out a sigh and came over to shake Emily by her shoulder, the girl still wrapped tightly beneath her sheets.

"Nnnnnnooooo," Emily grumbled unhappily. "I refuse to become a fully functioning member of society before at least nine in the morning."

"Sorry but you're going to have to get over that sooner or later," John said, throwing back Emily's covers. Emily let out a high pitched screech and pulled herself into a tight ball, her pillow held tightly over her head.

"Never. Mornings are evil."

Now John came over to Scottie and abruptly flipped his mattress up, knocking the boy out of it and sending him rolling onto the bedroom floor.

"Fuck youuuuu!" Scottie moaned just as he hit the ground. "Oof!"

"I'm coming back down here in ten minutes and if you're not dressed by then I'm donating your breakfasts to Sherlock's homeless network," John threatened.

Emily popped her head up from behind her pillow with an exaggerated frown. "Ten minutes?" she repeated. "This masterpiece takes more than ten minutes to prepare! It's not just picking out an outfit, but I still have to wash my face and brush my hair and put on makeup and--"

"You're quite literally my least favorite person right now!" Scottie called out over her, his face still planted into the carpet. John didn't answer either of them in favor of retrieving his coffee mug from where he'd set it down on one of their bedside tables and then exiting 221C.

Emily grunted something inaudible and probably not PG13 into her pillow before flopping over the side of her bed and joining Scottie on the floor. John wasn’t true to his word about checking back in in ten, but Scottie and Emily were ultimately capable of stumbling upstairs in a little less than twice that amount of time. There they found John waiting for them at the kitchen table with his cup of coffee and a newspaper. Sherlock wasn’t around, so they assumed he was still in his own room sleeping.

“You’re pushing it on time,” John sang upon seeing them enter the room.

“Time isn’t the only thing of mine that’s being pushed,” Scottie grunted.

“Shush. I made you pancakes. Real pancakes - not those thick stacks you Americans are so fond of.”

“Oh, you mean crepes,” Emily said, pulling out a chair for herself.

“I really don’t.”

Scottie leaned over the table as if he were searching for something. After a couple moments of this he leaned back again looking disappointed. “Where’s the syrup?”

John tilted his head with a tense smile. “You’re supposed to eat them with sugar and lemon. Both of which I’ve already put out in front of you.”

“Brits are fuckin’ weird,” Emily muttered, taking a bite from her plate. “Mm. Not half bad though. I didn’t know you could cook?”

“They were brought up from Speedy’s,” the doctor admitted quietly.

“Cheater, cheater.”

They continued to eat their breakfast for another ten minutes or so, John routinely checking his watch the entire time. When he finally decided that they were done, the man took away their nearly finished plates right from under Scottie and Emily and set the dishes down on the counter behind himself. John then handed the complaining children their bags and ushered them out of the kitchen. He stopped just before the hallway stairs, pulling Emily back by her shoulder.

“Now hang on a tic, missy,” the man started, “just what do you think you’re wearing?”

“Clothes,” Emily threw back with a straight face.

“Emily.”

“A sweater?” the girl tried again.

“I thought the point of a jumper was to keep warm?”

“It is warm.”

Unable to keep his cool any longer, John threw his arms out to the side in exasperation. “Your entire back side is exposed!”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Fashion, Johnny-boy. Look it up.”

“Go change,” John insisted.

Now it was Scottie’s turn to look mildly annoyed. “Oh, God forbid anyone see the poor girl’s lower back,” he drawled. “All the boys in her class might get distracted from their schoolwork.”

“No, no, he’s right. I’ll just pop back into 221C and throw something else on. I was thinking one of those sheer floral prints - you know, the ones you can see my entire bra through? Oh! Or perhaps that purple and white tie dye looking one with the cut and tied back together pattern going down both sides?”

“Alright that’s enough,” John barked, giving them both a nudge forward. “We’re in a hurry as it is. But don’t think that I’m okay with this sort of thing.”

The three of them exited the building and piled into a taxi, which took them to the high school, located less than fifteen minutes away from Baker Street.

“In the forever immortalized words of General Buttfuckingnaked, dees ees bullsheet,” Emily said, stepping out of the cab in front of the school.

John threw Emily a harsh look. “It’s not bullshit, it’s the law.”

“It is bullshit or you wouldn’t’ve waited almost two years to deal with it,” Scottie argued.

“This isn’t up for discussion. You have your schedules, Mrs. Hudson packed you each a lunch, and Sherlock and I are going to be away for a few days so we better not receive any phone calls from the head teacher, you hear?”

“Yes Mom,” Scottie and Emily grumbled, heads hung.

“Well?” John crossed his arms and nodded towards the secondary school campus in front of them. “Better hurry up or you’re going to be late for your first day.”

“Ugh fine bye,” Emily grunted, not moving just yet.

“Bye.”

But John didn’t budge either. Scottie looked him up and down. “You’re… not going to walk us in, are you?”

“No, “ the man answered, “but I know you both, and I’m not leaving until I know you’re through those gates.”

“I hope you get attacked by that big scary dog you’re after,” Emily hissed, taking Scottie by the crook of his arm and pulling him forward with her. She continued to go into the school, turning a sharp corner as soon as she passed a wall that blocked John from view.

Her friend jerked back, releasing himself from her grasp. “You’re seriously going through with this? Regular classes and everything?”

“Of course not,” Emily threw back, pulling her one-strapped backpack further up her shoulder where it had been slipping from. “I didn’t travel all the way here from a different continent in an alternate universe just to wind up back in public school. Sherlock and John are about to embark on the Baskerville case and we’re not missing it for the world.”

“Then why are we still here?”

“Because we’re waiting for John to leave.” The two of them peaked their heads out around the corner just in time to see John get back into the taxi and disappear down the block. “See?” Emily said, grinning at Scottie.

“Being in a fictional world has definitely changed you from the optimistic goody-two-shoes I once knew,” Scottie pointed out, stepping out and shaking his head.

No sooner had they started to exit the campus when they were stopped by a security guard.

“And just where do you two think you’re off to?”

“We, um…” Emily looked around. “I forgot my cell phone in my dad’s car,” she lied. “I was hoping to catch him again before it’s too late. He’s just across the street, I swear.”

“He can come and bring it to you here,” the security guard bellowed.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “And, pray tell, how exactly am I supposed to tell him to come over here without my phone?”

The guard nodded to Scottie. “Doesn’t he have one you can borrow?”

“No,” Emily said quickly.

“Tough luck then, kiddo.” A long tone that was apparently the school’s bell system went off. The security guard shifted his gaze up for a moment before looking back at Scottie and Emily. “You should probably get a move on. Don’t wanna be late for class.”

Emily exhaled unhappily and stormed off further into the school, Scottie hurrying to keep up with her. “Okay so what’s Plan B? There’s gotta be a Plan B. C’mon, what is it?” the boy pressed. His face fell with realization when Emily continued to not answer him. “Oh my God. There’s isn’t a Plan B, is there?”

Seven long and tedious hours passed before the school bell rang one final time for the day and they were released. Scottie and Emily left through the same front gate they’d come in though, making small talk about their less than exciting classes and the other students they definitely wouldn’t be becoming friends with anytime soon.

“Hang on, I’m gonna text Mrs. Hudson and see if she’s on her way,” Emily said, stopping outside the school and leaning her back against the gate as she pulled out her pink phone.

Scottie took a seat in front of the gate at Emily’s side. “I’m having violent war flashbacks,” he sighed. “So far, this is the worst day of my life!” Scottie threw his head back in utter despair. “And that’s including the times I was abducted by Chinese smugglers, watched my bestie get shot, and accidentally sniffed a bug up my nose and temporarily forgot who I was.”

Emily turned her head very slowly, squinting. “One of these is not like the others.”

\---

“I hate being right about doubting you.”

“You weren’t right.”

"Sure I was. I can't even begin to tell you how many flaws there are in your Plan B."

"Stop worrying," sighed Emily. "I said it before, and I will again: I've already thought everything out. Which car we'll be looking out for, during which time slot it should come by..."

"That's assuming he comes by this way at all! And what if he doesn't stop for us? Or even see us? What then?" questioned Scottie.

"Then... we're admittedly screwed?"

Scottie dropped to his knees dramatically. "Yup. This is exactly how I want to die. Stranded by a single road in the middle of nowhere with you and your stupid ‘idea’! Why can't we just call John and tell him what happened? He'll come and get us. Probably."

"Um. Because he'll be hella pissed?"

"He's going to be hella pissed either way! They left us behind for a reason."

"I recognize the council has made a decision, but given that it's a stupid-ass decision, we've elected to ignore it." Emily folded her arms and joined Scottie in the dirt. "And trust me, this has to work. The cab driver said this is as far out of the city as he can go, but it's also the only logical route to Baskerville.”

“Grimpon,” Scottie corrected. “Grimpon is the village in Dartmoor. The Baskerville Research Facility is located within Grimpon.”

“...okay whatever, smartypants. Point is, we know that Lestrade arrives a day after Sherlock and John, so at some point Lestrade's going to come this way, and I'm assuming his moral compass will keep him from leaving us stranded like this."

Scottie huffed. "I know. But I still would've felt better if you'd just talked Molly into letting us borrow her car like I suggested."

“Too risky. She might have confirmed with Sherlock and John first. This way, even if Lestrade does find out we lied to him, there’s nothing he can really do about it. I mean, it’s not like he’s going to take us all the way back into the city.”

“Okay, okay. I’m just saying.”

Scottie and Emily were currently sitting alongside a single highway entirely surrounded by dirt, large rocks, and the occasional patch of dry grass. It was the day after Sherlock and John had departed on their case, and after Mrs. Hudson had dropped the teens off a block away from the school, Scottie and Emily almost immediately hopped into a taxi headed the opposite direction. Over an hour passed since they’d gotten out here and only a handful of cars had gone by after that, but none of them belonged to Lestrade. (Hopefully.)

Emily strummed her fingers along her cheek, hunched over and cross-legged. "I spy with my little eye, something... tan."

Scottie was sprawled out on his back, which was undoubtedly covered in powdery dirt. The boy next to her raised an eyebrow. "Is it another rock?" he sighed.

"Okay, but more specifically?"

He sat upright and shook his shirt off. "Are you shitting me?" But because he has nothing better to do, Scottie humored her anyway: "Uh... is it the rock in front of us? Kinda shaped like an asymmetrical boob job?"

This went on for some time until, after what felt like ages, a police vehicle came whizzing by. Scottie and Emily lept up and began waving their arms about and shouting, but the car passed, leaving them both coughing in a dusty cloud. Just as they were starting to worry about this, however, the police car came skidding to a halt and then pulled up next to them in reverse. A dark window lowered to reveal none other than Detective Inspector Lestrade in the driver’s seat.

“Bloody hell,” the older man groaned, lifting a pair of sunglasses to the top of his head. “Alright. Let’s hear it. What sort of trouble have you kids gotten yourselves into now and just how much am I going to regret getting you out of it?”

Emily pursed her lips together and shifted her eyes over to Scottie. The boy cleared his throat. “Well, you see, officer, Sherlock and John took up a case out in Grimpon and wanted us to stay behind and take care of… something before joining them ourselves,” he lied.

“And you made it out this far by yourselves because…?”

“Apparently this is as far outside of London as the cab service taxis to.”

Scottie got a chuckle out of the pun from Emily’s end, but Lestrade merely rolled his eyes. He pressed a button at the side of the car and there was a loud clicking sound as the back doors unlocked. “Luckily for you kids, I’m headed to Dartmoor anyway. And I probably owe Sherlock a favor or two as it is. So… just get in before I change my mind.”

The teens thanked Lestrade repeatedly and shoved their way past one another into the back of the car. While starting the thing up again he then instructed them to send the others a text letting them know that they were alright and on their way (which they of course didn’t). The remainder of the ride was then spent mostly by annoying Lestrade with various roadtrip games and camp songs. More than twice the man had requested that the passengers sit still and keep quiet, but this was, of course, ignored. After an hour or so of this Lestrade finally let out a defeated sigh and reluctantly adopted a new “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” mindset.

“Oh, I wish I were a little slice of orange,” Emily sang from behind him to the tune of If You’re Happy and You Know It.

“Slice of orange!” echoed the two males enthusiastically.

“Oh, I wish I were a little slice of orange!” the girl repeated.

“Slice of orange!”

“I’d go squirty squirty squirty over everybody’s shirt-y, oh, I wish I were a little slice of orange!”

“Slice of orange!”

Emily took a deep breath and repeated the tune into the next verse: “Oh, I wish I were a little radio!”

“Radio!”

“Oh, I wish I were a little radio!”

“RADIO!”

“I’d go click!”

The song ended abruptly and all three of them sat in silence for a brief moment before erupting into laughter. As the giggles died down, the trio now realized they were just coming into Grimpon. “Alright, so do you know where you two were supposed to be meeting Sherlock and John?” Lestrade asked.

“Um. I think it was an inn.”

“...do you by any chance recall a name?”

“How many inns do you really think there are around here?”

The man frowned. “Well, I’m staying at the Cross Keys Pub. So I can drop you off there.”

“Perfect,” Scottie nodded. “That actually does sound about right.”

In a few minutes they pulled into a little parking lot beside the Cross Keys Pub, the quaint little inn that Sherlock and John primarily used as their base during the original episode. Scottie and Emily hadn’t brought many of their things with them, just a backpack each with a couple changes of clothing, toiletries, and pajamas, and so Lestrade put them to work helping bring in his luggage bags from the back of the police car to the inn’s lobby.

“Lestrade,” the Detective Inspector informed the man at the front desk. “Greg Lestrade.”

The receptionist scanned his eyes through a long list on a clipboard, gave the three of them a once-over, frowned and looked back at his list, and then looked up once more. “I only have you booked as a single,” he finally said.

“What? Oh, no! I, uh… They’re not with me. I mean, they are technically, but they’re not mine. They’re not staying with me, that is.”

The other man raised an eyebrow but shrugged and continued. Lestrade scratched the back of his head and turned to Scottie and Emily. “Uh, do you think you should call them? Let them know you’re here?”

“Oh, right, of course,” Emily answered. She pulled out the pink phone she’d taken possession of from the last season and went into the actual pub section of the place.

“Hey, are we technically allowed in here?” asked Scottie, bobbing after her.

“Who cares? There’s only one police officer in the immediate vicinity and we’re already with him.” Emily waited for a minute before hanging up. “No answer,” she muttered.

“Well? Are they here?” Lestrade demanded, joining them. Suddenly distracted, he went up to the counter and began ordering himself a drink.

“Well speak of the devil,” Scottie smiled, nodding towards the entrance.

“What the hell are you doing here?” another voice bellowed from the pub’s entrance. The others looked up to see a familiar face practically lunging towards them with loud, heavy steps.

“Well, nice to see you too!” Lestrade greeted Sherlock. “I’m on a holiday, would you believe?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” the detective retorted. “And I thought John put you two in school?”

“That I did,” confirmed John. He now approached the bar as well. “Signed all the paperwork, walked them in and everything!”

Scottie shrugged. “I don’t know, high school just seemed rather insignificant in light of proving a man sane by uncovering the truth about his father’s murder.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t be ones uncovering it! That’s what Sherlock and I are here for!”

Lestrade removed his sunglasses and gave the troublemakers an incredulous look. “I can’t believe you lied to me!” Beat. “Well, actually I rather can and sort of expected as much. But I’m equally shocked and appalled that it worked.”

“I don’t believe it.” John rubbed at his face. “Not only did you deliberately disobey me, you went and dragged the Detective Inspector into it as well!”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Emily rolled her eyes. “We’re practically adults. Technically we’re old enough to not even be in high school anymore, and even if we were, what’s the point in randomly going for a couple months and then graduating?”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, I agree with John on this one. It’s important that children get an education, and… and that sort of thing. But what’s this about proving a man sane? Scottie and Emily mentioned that you guys were on a case up here. Is that what it’s about? You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly?”

“I’m still waiting for an explanation, Inspector.” Sherlock retorted. “I already know that the kids have an unhealthy fascination with rule breaking and sticking their noses into places where they don’t belong for the sake of the thrill, but what’s your excuse? Why are you here? Or were you that easily overcome by the batting of their eyelashes?”

“I told you: I’m on a holiday.”

“You’re brown as a nut. You’ve clearly just got back from your ‘holidays’.”

The Detective Inspector made a face. “Yeah, well… I fancied another one.”

“Oh, this is Mycroft, isn’t it?” John chimed in.

“No, look…”

“Of course it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to… to spy on me incognito. Nice touch with the youngers, I’ll give him that one. Try and make it look like they’re the masterminds behind the whole scheme. Is that why you’re calling yourself Greg?”

Now it was John’s turn to make a face at Sherlock. “...that’s his name.”

“Is it?” the consulting detective frowned.

“Yes, if you ever bothered to find out,” Lestrade practically said through gritted teeth. The man turned away and retrieved the beer that he had ordered from the bar. “Look, I’m not your handler,” he continued, “and I don’t just do whatever your brother tells me.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “So it is the kids, then? What does that make you, their babysitter? Or the other way around?”

“Shut it.”

“Actually, you could be just the man we want,” John interjected.

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve not been idle, Sherlock. I think I may have found something.” John rummaged through his pockets for a moment and pulled forth a slip of paper, which he turned at an angle to show Sherlock. “Here. Didn’t know if it was relevant; starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant.”

“Excellent.”

“So we’re not in trouble any more?” Scottie asked hopefully.

“Oh, you’re both definitely grounded when we get back into London,” John told him. “But right now there are more important things to worry about.”

Not too long after this conversation, Lestrade had migrated to a table to look through some paperwork with the establishment’s chef and manager. Meanwhile Sherlock had made himself busy preparing a cup of coffee from a machine, which he then brought over to John.

“What’s this?” the other man asked, glancing up.

“Coffee,” Sherlock told him. “I made coffee.”

“You never make coffee.”

“I just did. Don’t you want it?”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” John told him.

“He’s like an adorable puppy looking for love and affection,” Scottie whispered to Emily.

She turned her head to him with one raised eyebrow. “I’m… not entirely sure those are the words I’d use, but.”

“Thanks.” John took the mug reluctantly and had a sip. He made a face at it. “Mm. I don’t take sugar…” Sherlock looked hurt by this gesture, which John tried to make better by continuing to sip at the drink regardless of his personal preference.

“See?” Scottie said with a nod.

“Is that when you had the idea, after the TV show went out?” Lestrade was asking the two men seated across from him.

“It’s me,” the first man said. “It was me.” He turned to his partner, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry, Gary. I couldn’t help it. I had a bacon sandwich at Cal’s wedding and one thing led to another…”

“That’s almost exactly what happened with my sister,” Emily said half to herself.

“Nice try.” Lestrade, like many of the other’s in the room, didn’t believe the guy’s story.

“Look, we were just trying to give things a bit of boost, you know?” Gary tried. “A great big dog run wild up on the moor - it was heaven-sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness Monster.”

“Where do you keep it?” asked the DI.

“There’s an old mineshaft. It’s not too far. It was all right there.”

“Was?” Sherlock echoed from behind the group.

“We couldn’t control the bloody thing,” Gary went on with a sigh. “It was--”

Suddenly there was a high pitched screech and loud thud. All heads turned to Emily and Scottie to see that the table they’d been seated at was now lying on its side and both teenagers were standing up around it.

“That was all Scottie,” Emily said, breaking the uneasy silence that followed.

“There was a huge spider,” whimpered Scottie. He looked down guiltily. His eyes then widened and he let out a loud yelp. “OH MY GOD THERE IT IS AGAIN!” The boy picked up the stool he’d been previously sitting on and held it out in front of him like a weapon, using it to drive the bug further away from himself. “BACK!” he kept yelling out. “BACK FOUL BEAST! BACK FROM WHENCE YOU CAME!”

John’s face was turning red now. “Scottie! For the love of… Scottie, you knock that off right now!”

“No,” the boy threw back defiantly. “Captain Sockarms does what he wants.”

“Captain Sockarms fights like my sister,” Emily said with a slight chuckle.

Scottie smirked. “I fought your sister - that’s a compliment!”

“It’s really not,” the girl answered, smile fading. “Do you know how many times I’ve successfully pinned her to the ground?”

“Yeah, but what about heartlessly exploiting weaknesses?” Without much more of a warning than that, Scottie prodded Emily right in the boob with the leg of his stool.

“Oi!” she let out, smacking the piece of furniture back.

The doctor crossed his arms and threw an incredulous look at Sherlock. The other man merely shrugged. “This is your fault,” John accused. “Control your son.”

“Oh so now he’s my son? He was your son when he was painting pretty pictures all over the flat!”

“Exactly. He’s yours when he does STUPID SHIT and DOESN’T LISTEN TO ME.”

“Hm I wonder where he gets that from,” Emily said softly with a sidelong glance at Sherlock.

“He’d be sitting in class right now if you were a better parent,” Sherlock hissed.

“Alright, that’s enough,” John said, taking the stool from Scottie and setting it down. “I’m sorry,” he told the others. He bent over to pick up the table Scottie had knocked over, apologizing not once but twice more on Scottie’s behalf.

Lestrade swallowed. “Um. Right. So, uh, back to the thing about the dog…”

“Oh, Of course,” Gary said, blinking. “Well, a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and, er… you know.”

“It’s dead?” John asked, dusting off his hands and looking up.

“Put down.”

“Yeah,” Billy agreed. “No choice. So it’s over.”

“It was a just a joke, you know?”

“Yeah, hilarious!” Lestrade threw back sarcastically. The man stood up and looked down at them angrily. “You’ve nearly driven a man out of his mind.” Lestrade stood up then and stormed out of the room, Gary and Billy staring after him in a guilt-filled silence.

“You two drive me out of my mind near every day,” John said under his breath.

“Impossible,” Scottie disagreed. “I’ve been told I’m a pleasure to have in class.”

John didn’t have any appropriate way to respond to this, and so he didn’t instead choosing to march after Lestrade in an equally ticked off manner. Scottie looked at Emily and shrugged. No one spoke after the two men had left. Sherlock peered into John’s coffee mug and then trailed after them, the kids in tow. They found John and Lestrade talking just outside the pub.

“So, you believe him about having the dog destroyed?” Lestrade asked Sherlock as soon as he came up to them.

“No reason not to.”

“Well, hopefully there’s no harm done. Not quite sure what I’d charge him with anyway. I’ll have a word with the local force.”

“Hey, if you’re planning on going back into Baskerville, we’re coming too,” Scottie announced.

Sherlock shook his head. "Absolutely not. Not that it’s any of your business whether we go back in or not, the research facility is no place for children."

“Are we going back, though?” asked John.

“Well, since you’ve mentioned it, I actually have got a theory that can only be tested once we’re back in there.”

"Children?" echoed Emily in disbelief. "Are we seriously back to this bullshittery? We're eighteen. And on top of that, Scottie and I have already been present at several crime scenes, as well as survived more than one shootout. What do you think can possibly go wrong? It's just a giant lab. No one's even gonna be there but us."

"And quite possibly a 'gigantic hound,'" muttered John.

Scottie rolled his eyes. "You don't seriously still buy that crap, do you?”

John frowned. "Well... We're still looking into it, okay? Lestrade, I don’t suppose you’d mind keeping an eye on them both while we're out? Keep them out of trouble."

“No way!” Lestrade, Scottie, and Emily all said at once said at once. The three of them exchanged glances.

“Please,” begged John. “I’ll pay you. That’s what people normally do, right?”

“...I’m listening.”

“Now hang on a minute, I think we have a say in this,” Emily protested.

“I’m positive that you don’t. Must every conversation we have end in me reminding you just how much trouble you two are already in?”

The girl placed a single hand on her hip, which she cocked out to the side defiantly. “Well, maybe if you didn’t overreact at every little thing we did--”

“How much are we talking? I am on a holiday here, you know,” Lestrade interrupted.

John shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll talk later.”

“Hello, brother dear. How are you?” Sherlock said into a mobile in his most manipulative voice, having stepped some ways away from the others as they bickered.

“I don’t believe this,” Scottie whined, slumping his shoulders forward.

“And you think I’m any happier with this situation?” Lestrade asked, folding his arms.

“Well. John’s offered to pay you for your quote-on-quote ‘services’, so… yeah. Yeah, I think you are.”

\---

Sherlock and John did eventually set out for the research facility without the company of Scottie and Emily, and that night the three that had stayed behind had dinner together at the Cross Keys and then went back to Lestrade’s hotel room, as not only had they not been left the keys to the other boys’, but Lestrade also didn’t trust either of them to stay in a room by themselves given the circumstances. A part of Lestrade suspected that, even if he were to stand guard outside, they’d still manage a way of sneaking out the bathroom window or something.

And so, Lestrade sat down at the edge of his own hotel bed and shifted his eyes from Scottie to Emily.

“Look, we all know I’m not entirely down for the whole babysitting thing either,” he told the teenagers, who were currently giving him the silent treatment. “I’m supposed to be on a bloody holiday, not stuck here with you two!”

“Should’ve thought about that before you agreed to keep us here while Sherlock and John went off to do all the fun stuff,” Emily said under her breath.

"Fun? Searching for some, uh… some weird government conspiracy isn’t fun. I know fun. And that isn’t it.”

Scottie raised a skeptical brow. “Do you now?”

"Sure,” the man grunted. "Do you. Uh. Think we should play a board game, or...?"

"...okay yeah fuck this 'babysitting' nonsense."

Emily snatched up her jacket and made for the door. Lestrade stiffened.

"N-Now hold on just a minute, Sherlock and John specifically told me to make sure you stayed on the premises. Where are you going?"

Emily touched the door handle but didn't turn it just yet. "Out," the girl answered with as much sass as she could muster up.

"Actually I have been meaning to test out that fake ID I made," Scottie said calmly.

The Detective Inspector suddenly looked overwhelmed. "What? No. Don't be like that. I know the second I let you out of my site you devils are going to go running right off to that spooky research facility, and then anything that goes wrong is pinned on me. You have to stay in this room. That's non-negotiable."

Emily rolled her eyes dramatically, throwing her neck back in the process. "Puh-lease! You couldn't keep us here if you wanted to."

Lestrade frowned. "I'll have you know, young lady, I was trained in special forces combat."

"Well aren't you a special snowflake."

"Don't either of you open that door," Lestrade warned.

"Or what?" purred Emily as Scottie joined her at the end of the room. Famous last words indeed.

\---

"Not. A. Word."

"...I wasn't going to say anything."

"But you were thinking it."

Scottie snickered and looked away. He and Emily were currently handcuffed together with one of their arms raised above their heads, the chain hung over the bar holding up the hotel room's shower curtain.

"I will kick you," Emily threatened.

"Sorry. Sorry."

Scottie took a couple deep breaths to keep himself from laughing. Once he'd quieted himself, the duo stood in contemplative silence for some time. Eventually Emily began tugging at the bar.

"Here, help me pull on it," she urged.

"Um. What are you...?"

"What does it look like? If we can snap the bar off of the wall we can slide out and getting out of these will be a hell of a lot easier."

Scottie looked up at where the shower bar connected to the bathroom wall. "Lestrade is gonna be hella pissed at the bill," he murmured.

"And it'll serve him right, ganging up on a couple of kids like this!"

"Oh, so now we're 'kids'."

"Are you helping or not?!"

With a sigh Scottie joined Emily in yanking at the bar with both arms. This went on for several minutes without it budging.

"Okay, so this place is a little better built than my old apartment," she sighed in defeat.

"Oh! The pointy metal thingies!" gasped Scottie. "Give me one of your pointy metal thingies!"

"My what?"

"The ones you put in your hair!"

Emily raised an eyebrow. "Could you by any chance be referring to bobby pins?"

Scottie nodded vigorously. "Yes! Yes, exactly. Those things. Give me one and maybe I can pick the lock with it. That’s how all the badass chicks do it in the movies, right?"

"What the hell makes you think I have bobby pins on me?"

"Don't you?" Scottie looked confused. "I thought all girls carried around an excess of bobby pins. It's, like, the law."

"The film industry has lied to you, my friend. I pretty much never wear bobby pins."

"You're useless, then!" Scottie let out in dismay.

The teens grew quiet again. "Hang on, do you think you could squeeze out of them?" Emily suddenly asked.

"Don't you think I would've tried that already?"

"In theory, I mean. With something like lotion."

Scottie met her eyes with a curious look. "Lotion? In that case, maybe, but where are we gonna get..." The boy's eyes widened as he finally began to catch on. Emily nodded with a sly smile. "Oh! Lotion! You’re brilliant! Can you reach it, though?"

"Watch and learn."

Emily kicked off a shoe and used her free hand to pull off its sock. She then put all of her weight onto the bar she was secured to and stepped onto the closed toilet lid. With her bare foot the girl reached as far as she could across the bathroom counter, with Scottie chanting "c'mon c'mon" all the while. After what felt like much longer than it really was she managed to grab a tiny bottle of hotel lotion between her toes and hopped one-footed back down.

With a triumphant grunt, Emily traded off the bottle from her foot to her free hand and used that to untwist the lid and drop it on the tile floor. She then passed it off to her other hand to squeeze a glob of lotion into her palm just before the entire thing slipped out of her grasp. Scottie watched with interest as she then reached up and rubbed the lotion between the two hands and as far down her wrist as she could get. Emily looked quite silly trying to wriggle her handcuffed arm free, but eventually she was able to do so and fell to the bathroom floor along with a thud.

Scottie also came toppling down as soon as her weight was no longer on the other side of the cuffs, and he tripped backwards into the tub.

"Ouch," Emily winced, rubbing at her hand.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just cut myself on the metal, that's all. But at least it was worth it." She picked up the lotion bottle and screwed the lid back on, tossing it to Scottie, who caught the thing with one hand.

Luckily not too much of it had spilled out when the bottle hit the floor, and he immediately got to work on freeing himself the rest of the way. Scottie glanced up in the middle of doing this to see Emily grinning back at him stupidly. “What’re you so smug about?” he demanded.

“You called me brilliant,” she answered in a sing-song voice.

Now Scottie couldn’t help but smile back. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it,” he chuckled. With a final pull Scottie was out of the handcuff. “Ha! Take that, Lestrade! Your filthy cuffs are no match for Captain Sockarms and… um… We never did give you a superhero name, did we?”

“No, and we aren’t going to.”

Scottie grinned mischieviously. “You sure about that… Cadet Lotionwrists?”

Emily looked as if she were about to get mad but changed her mind suddenly. She folded her arms in contemplation. “Actually… that does kind of have a nice ring to it. So what’s the plan now, Captain?”

“Let’s try to catch up with them at Baskerville,” Scottie said decisively.

“Great idea! But isn’t it, y’know… all locked up with security and whatnot?”

The boy shrugged indifferently. “If worse comes to worse we’ll set off the alarms and Sherlock and John will come and find us themselves. It’s a win/win.”

“If you say so. But it’s gonna be a hell of a long walk, unless…” Emily came into the bedroom again. Lestrade had long since left the hotel room. The girl circled the room several times, looking around and through the empty drawers. Scottie raised an eyebrow.

“Uh. What are you looking for?”

“Lestrade’s car keys,” Emily explained, straightening. “We can’t exactly call a cab here.”

“He’s not the brightest man in the history of everything, but Lestrade isn’t dumb either. He took his keys with him.”

“Whelp. That’s gonna make this a helluva lot harder.” Emily passed Scottie and exited the room. The boy followed after her. The troublemakers popped their heads into the inn’s lounge, where right away they spotted the DI sitting by himself in an armchair and facing the fireplace. He had a drink in one hand and keys set down on a little table beside him. Emily grinned. “Bingo. Okay Scottie, now’s your chance. Go take the keys.”

Scottie snapped his neck around at his accomplice. “What? No! You do it, it’s your idea!”

With a disappointed sigh, Emily crept forward. Scottie bit at his lip nervously and clung to the doorframe, watching her as she slowly came up behind Lestade’s chair and picked up the keys, gripping them tightly so they didn’t jingle. Emily had been holding her breath the entire time and didn’t release said breath until she’d quickly tiptoed all the way back to Scottie and then ducked around the corner.

“Oh man we are SO unbelievably beyond grounded when we get back,” Scottie squealed. Emily promptly shushed him and nodded her head towards the way out.

\---

Once Lestrade’s car was parked in front of Baskerville, Scottie and Emily got out and cautiously approached the facility. An insanely high gate circled the entire perimeter. The teens stopped in front of it and stared up with wide eyes.

Scottie swallowed. “So um. Maybe we should’ve invested in some wire cutters…”

“I could probably climb that,” Emily said. “Probably. Might fall and cut up my knees but y’know. That’s the price you pay for heroism.”

Scottie tapped Emily on the shoulder and pointed. “Oh hey, we might not need to after all.” Emily followed his gesture towards the entrance to the building itself, which Sherlock, John, and a woman they hadn’t been personally introduced to were just exiting.

“Oh thank God,” Emily breathed.

“Ditto. Because I’m gonna be perfectly honest here, I was not down to deal with your broken leg after you climbed over the top and lost your footing.”

Emily glared daggers back at Scottie. The others seemed to be saying goodbye, as the woman then went back inside and the boys turned to leave. Scottie and Emily grinned obnoxiously and waved to them as soon as they were looking forward. Sherlock and John ran over in a matter of seconds and opened the gate.

“I thought I told you to stay with Lestrade!” snapped Sherlock.

“Are we really going to have this discussion?” Scottie asked skeptically. “How long have you known us, again? And of that time, how many times, exactly, did we ever stay put when you wanted us to?”

“What vehicle is that, anyway?” asked John.

“Lestrade’s car.”

“YOU STOLE LESTRADE’S CAR?”

“Borrowed,” Scottie corrected. “With the full intention of returning it.”

“John, we don’t have time to deal with this right now,” Sherlock pressed, although he didn’t sound happy about the situation either. “We have to get to Dewer’s Hollow as quickly as possible.”

“Lestrade can’t meet us there if they stole his car though,” John reminded him.

“Borrowed!”

The doctor clenched his fists angrily. “Oh, you shut it, mister! You are in for a world of trouble when this is all over with!”

“Oh yeah I’m totally scared,” yawned Scottie.

“I wanna drive us!” Emily let out excitedly.

“What? No!” huffed John. “Absolutely not! Not only is it illegal for you to drive us--”

“She and Scottie can return Lestrade’s car so that he can meet up with us,” instructed Sherlock. “You and I will go to Dewer’s Hollow and not waste any more time reprimanding them. Got it?”

“Hell to the no!” pouted Emily. “If we go there Lestrade is going to kill us! And then he won’t let us come with him!”

Scottie nodded. “She’s actually got a point. Can I ride with you guys?”

“Traitor!”

“No,” Sherlock and John said simultaneously.

Emily folded her arms and stepped in between the two of them. “Okay, so here’s how this is going to go down: I have Lestrade’s car keys. I’m going to give to one of you, and said person will pick up Lestrade. The other goes with Scottie and I to Dewer’s Hollow and I DRIVE. Capiche?”

“No,” they said again.

“Okay then,” the girl shrugged. “In that case Lestrade doesn’t get his car back and if you really want him to tag along you’re going to have to pick him up yourself. And hope that Henry doesn’t do something particularly reckless in the time you wasted doing that.” Emily took out the keys to show the boys and dangled them for a moment before starting to tuck them back into her pocket.

“You little shit!” John hissed, lunging forward in an attempt to snatch the keys away. Emily shrieked and tossed them to Scottie, who wasn’t prepared for the action and let them hit the ground first before picking them up himself.

“Okay fine! You win! Let’s just get going!” Sherlock practically screamed, taking out his own set of car keys and chucking them at Emily so that they hit her in the head. Emily yelped upon impact but otherwise didn’t complain about her victory. John let out a frustrated grumble and came over to Scottie, snatching Lestrade’s keys from him. Looking pleased with herself, Emily hurried over to their rental and let herself into the front seat while Sherlock and Scottie climbed in after her and John unlocked Lestrade’s car.

\---

Somehow they did make it to Dewer’s Hollow just in time to find Henry sitting in the middle of the hollow with the barrel of a gun in his mouth.

“No, Henry, no! No!” Sherlock let out, scrambled past Emily and Scottie and down the hill towards Henry. The kids followed after him. Henry stood up and stumbled backwards, waving the pistol in their direction now.

“Get back!” Henry wailed. “Get - Get away from me!”

Scottie and Emily stopped in their tracks, but Sherlock inched forward cautiously.

“I know what I am. I know what I tried to do!”

“Yes, I’m sure you do, Henry,” Sherlock tried. “It’s all been explained to you, hasn’t it? Explained very carefully.”

Henry looked confused as ever. “What?”

“Someone needed to keep you quiet. Needed to keep you as a child to reassert the dream that you’d both clung on to, because you had started to remember.” Sherlock took another cautious step forward. “Remember now, Henry,” he urged. “You’ve got to remember what happened here when you were a little boy.”

Henry’s face distorted as he struggled to make sense of it all. “I thought it had got my dad - the hound. I thought.. Oh Je... Oh Jesus, I don’t… I don’t know anymore!” Henry let out a wail and began sobbing now, doubling over and putting the gun back in his mouth.

“Henry, remember!” Sherlock let out urgently. “Liberty In. Two words. Two words a frightened little boy saw here twenty years ago. You’d started to piece things together, remember what really happened here that night. It wasn’t an animal, was it, Henry?” Henry started to straighten again, blinking. “Not a monster,” Sherlock went on. “A man.” Henry’s eyes widened, showing that he was finally realizing what had truly occurred that night. “You couldn’t cope. You were just a child, so you rationalized it into something very different. But then you started to remember, so you had to be stopped. Driven out of your mind so that no one would believe a word you said.”

“Sherlock!” someone called from behind them. Scottie and Emily turned to see John and Lestrade coming down from the top of the hollow, but Sherlock continued towards Henry and carefully took the weapon from him.

“But we saw it,” Henry whimpered. “The hound. Last night. We s… We-We-We did; we saw…”

“Yeah, but there was a dog, Henry,” Sherlock explained. “Leaving footprints, scaring witnesses. But it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it - saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus: that’s how it works. But there never was any monster.”

Just then there was the sound of a long and drawn-out howl from somewhere in the woods. The entirety of the group’s necks snapped up and John and Lestrade waved their flashlights around at the trees until they spotted a dark figure moving between them.

“Sherlock…” John said weakly.

Henry went pale. “No. No, no, no, no!” The man began backing away. Sherlock held out a hand towards him.

“Henry. Henry…”

“Sherlock,” repeated John.

Henry crumpled to the ground, letting out another “No!” Now John said his name.

“Shit,” Lestrade muttered, his eyes never leaving the snarling dog.

“It’s just a puppy,” Scottie told himself. “It’s just a cute little innocent puppy that’s having a bad day.”

“Looks more like a hellhound,” whispered Emily. The two of them clearly weren’t as afraid of it as the others, having seen the episode before, but it was still difficult not to be a wary of the dog’s bared teeth and what appeared to be its glowing red eyes.

The others went on behind the kids:

“Greg, are you seeing this? Right: he is not drugged, Sherlock, so what’s that? What is it?”

“Alright! It’s still here… but it’s just a dog. Henry! It’s nothing more than an ordinary dog!”

“Oh my God. Oh, Christ!”

The dog leapt a little ways down the slope now. Scottie took a deep breath and stepped forward. Emily grabbed at his sleeve, stopping him. “What are you doing?” the girl hissed.

“They’re going to shoot it, remember?” Scottie shot back. “They won’t if I’m there.”

“And what if it mauls you first?!”

Scottie shrugged. “It’s an animal. You know me. I hate people but I’m weak when it comes to defenseless animals.”

“It’s not defenseless,” Emily protested. “The guys back at the inn said so themselves. It’s vicious; they couldn’t control it!”

Ignoring her warnings, Scottie ripped out of the girl’s grasp and darted forward.

“Scottie!” John yelled, noticing this.

When the boy got close enough to the creature, it seemed to stiffen and stand its ground. It barked at him. Scottie stopped where he was and knelt down, holding out a hand to it.

“Oh my God what is he doing!” John wheezed from just behind Emily. She shushed him.

Sherlock was starting to go into a panic now. “No!” he cried out. “It’s not you! You’re not here!” Emily glanced over her shoulder, seeing the newcomer he was talking to now: a man dressed in white with a gasmask on. Also the man she knew was responsible for what was happening to them: Frankland.

She looked up again at Scottie and for half a second could’ve sworn she saw the dog monster ripping him from limb to limb. Emily screamed and she and John ran forward, but as soon as she got there she saw that nothing was really the matter. Their presence made the dog stumble backwards in surprise.

“See? It’s friendly,” Scottie said, his voice still trembling somewhat. “Once… Once you get past all the horrific demon-like aspects of it. But those will go away once we get out of here.”

“The fog,” Sherlock was saying.

John turned his head around to look back at him. “What?”

“It’s the fog! The drug! It’s in the fog! Aerosol dispersal - that’s what it said in those records. Project HOUND - it’s the fog. A chemical minefield!”

Lestrade immediately threw a hand over his face, trying to keep from breathing too much of the mist without much success.

“For God’s sake, kill it!” the man on the ground let out. “Kill it!”

“No!” Scottie shouted, clinging to the dog, which, despite its still terrifying appearance, wasn’t behaving nearly as high and mighty as before.

“We should get it back to the main road,” suggested Emily. “I’d at least feel a lot better about this whole thing if it didn’t look like… Well. That.”

Sherlock was at their side suddenly, pulling Henry along by his arm as the other man dug his heels into the dirt. “Look at it, Henry!” the consulting detective was saying.

“No, no, no!”

“Come on, look at it!” Sherlock gave Henry a shove forward.

“He’s harmless,” Scottie promised. “Just a little shaken up by all the commotion. See?”

“It’s just…” Henry stared at the dog silently for some time, his face twisting into ten different emotions before he finally whirled around and came at Frankland. “You bastard. You bastard!” Frankland was knocked to ground a second time, this time by Henry, who was shaking and had gone red in the face. “Twenty years!” Henry hissed. “Twenty years of my life making no sense! Why didn’t you just kill me?!”

He was pulled back by the joint efforts of Sherlock, John, and Lestrade. “Because dead men get listened to,” explained Sherlock. “He needed to do more than kill you. He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father, and he had the means right at his feet - a chemical minefield. Pressure pads in the ground dosing you up every time that you came back here.” Sherlock threw his arms out wide and spun around for effect. “Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once! Oh, this case, Henry! Thank you. It’s been brilliant.”

“Sherlock,” warned John.

Emily elbowed Scottie. “No but seriously. Main road. Stop getting distracted by the rest of the scene.”

“Right,” Scottie muttered, straightening. “C’mere, boy! C’mere!” The boy patted at his thighs, taking several steps back. The dog was hesitant at first, but followed him ever so slowly. The minute Frankland started to flee the dog got temporarily distracted, but Scottie whistled, calling in its attention once more, and the two of them were eventually able to lead it out of the Dewer’s Hollow to where they’d parked the cars.

“Well that was exciting,” Emily exhaled. She knelt down to scratch the dog behind its ear. It looked a lot less intimidating now that they were away from the mist and street lamps lit up the area from some ways away. As they suspected, it was just an enormous yet perfectly ordinary black dog. “Who’s a good boy?” the girl cooed. “You are! Yes you are!” Already warming up to them, the dog leaned forward and licked her face. “Hey! Das gross!” she giggled, pushing him back and wiping her cheek with the back of a hand.

“Well what do you know,” smiled Scottie. “We actually managed to save a life in all of this. I wonder if it’s possible to go back to Baskerville and steal Bluebell…”

The dog let out a yawn and rolled onto its back happily. Emily stood up again and crossed her arms. “So what’s to become of him now?”

“I dunno. Sherlock might just want him released back into the woods,” Scottie guessed, “or maybe put down or something.”

“Neither of which I’m okay with,” Emily pointed out. “Maybe we could drop it off at a shelter?”

“Or maybe WE could keep it!” gasped Scottie.

“Scottie. No.”

“Why the hell not? Look at him, he likes you! He gave you kisses and everything! Isn’t that just adorable?”

“Sherlock and John aren’t going to like it.”

“Unfortunately for them, we’re both adults and have our own flat we can keep him in if they’re completely against it. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson won’t mind.”

“Alright, we’ll see,” Emily gave in. “He is… pretty adorable.”

Scottie fist pumped the air energetically. “Aw yee! We’re adopting a giant puppy!”

“I said we’ll see.”

“Quick, let’s name him so that we get attached faster. What do you think of Gladstone?”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “But he’s not a bulldog.”

“So? It’ll be funny because Sherlock and John won’t get it.”

“You’re such a strange child.”

\---

"And once again, the day is saved, thanks to the joint efforts of Captain Sockarms and Cadet Lotionwrist!" Scottie announced triumphantly, patting Gladstone on the head. The dog barked and he let out a laugh. “Okay, and you too, Superdog.”

"Don't get cocky," muttered a rather bitter Sherlock. "It's a miracle you two are even still alive. You would've made things a lot easier, had you just stayed at the inn like I wanted you to. Better yet, you shouldn't have left the city at all!"

Emily pursed her lips together. "Well. Thank you for your input, Attitude Man, but I happen to specifically recall you flipping a shit as soon as those drugs got into your system, just like everyone else."

"There was also a rumor that you broke down crying in public after your first encounter with this so-called gigantic hound," cooed Scottie.

The detective's nostrils flared but he said nothing. John chuckled. "So, hey, how come everyone has a secret crime fighting identity but me?" the doctor asked.

"I am not Attitude Man," hissed Sherlock.

"Yes you are," everyone else corrected.

Scottie put a thoughtful finger to his chin. "Hm. That depends: are you willing to let a couple of young superheroes keep their new sidekick?"

"I suppose that can be arranged," John smiled. “He does seem to be a lot better behaved than Gary and Billy painted him to be. And I have always kind of wanted a dog. It’s a lot of responsibility, though. You’re both going to have to prove that you can take care of it yourselves.”

Sherlock pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Rewarding them for getting in the way is only encouraging it."

"Whelp, that decides it then," Scottie grinned. "You can be Dr. Fun Times!"

"YES!" John fist pumped the air energetically.

With a scowl, Sherlock got up from the bench. "Whatever. I'm going to check us out of the room. You berks can wait here and discuss your superpowers, or braid each other's hair or whatever." The detective whirled around and stormed away from the group then.

"Another classic display from Attitude Man," Emily giggled.

John leaned forward across the table. "Well, I don't know about you, but I think Dr. Fun Times could use a badarse magic healing staff."

“Ooh, I like it! And, hey, can you promise me something?” Emily asked, leaning forward over the table.

John was hesitant now. “What is it?”

“Please don’t make us go back to school. Not like this, anyway. We only went to humor you. And, you know, fully intended to ditch on the very first day and come down here.”

John chewed on his lower lip for a moment, sitting back on the bench. Gladstone let out a bark and put his chin on the doctor’s knee, looking up at the man with wide eyes. John couldn’t help but smile a little and bent over to pat the dog on its shoulders.

“We’ll talk.”


	6. The Reichenderp Derp

Things were good for the residents of 221 Baker Street. Almost too good, it would seem. John’s blog had taken off, spurring up a near constant stream of press coverage on the family, which had begun to be referred to as the Scooby Gang, which was all the more fitting now that they actually had a pet dog. Sherlock and Scottie seemed to loathe the attention; John put on an indifferent outlook, and Emily seemingly couldn’t get enough of all the buzz, usually being the first to strike a pose for the paparazzi.

One particular morning John was seated on the couch and looking over several newspapers as his flatmate stomped over and threw one more copy down in front of him.

“Boffin,” Sherlock scoffed. “Boffin Sherlock Holmes.” He started walking back across the room in the opposite direction, having to step over Emily, who had an entire scrapbooking collage project set up that took up the vast majority of the living room floor.

“Careful!” Emily warned, pulling the scrapbook closer to keep the detective from treading on it. Circled around her were printed out photographs she’d taken over the last few weeks, when she first decided to start the project, as well as stacks of colored and patterned paper, fun stickers, rhinestones and glitter glue. Gladstone had long since been shut into 221C to be kept from eating all the craft materials.

“Everybody gets one,” John muttered.

Sherlock stopped and looked back at the other man. “One what?”

“Tabloid nickname. SuBo, Nasty Nick… Shouldn’t worry; I’ll probably get one soon.”

“MADRE DE DIOS!” Scottie squeaked, toppling over from where he’d been sitting on the arm of the couch so that he was now lying across it sideways with his head in John’s lap. “LOOK!” The boy held up the paper for John to see, except that it was way too close to his face and the doctor had to snatch it away and then set it down at a comfortable distance (which just so happened to be directly on top of Scottie’s face).

John squinted at the paper. “Johnlock? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Emily’s neck snapped up at the word. Scottie turned his head sideways to her, peering out from underneath the page folding over him. “It has begun,” he said in an unnecessarily deep voice.

“Johnlock: London’s Favorite OTP,” John read the full article title aloud. “It’s like some kind of foreign language!”

“OTP means one true pairing,” Scottie explained, spinning around to sit upright. “As in a couple you ship. Johnlock is your power couple name. Congrats.”

“...yeah see words are coming out and I still have no idea what’s going on.” John straightened out the paper and read on: “What’s sexier than fighting crime? Doing it with the whole family, apparently! The public can’t seem to get enough of happy couple Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and adopted children…” Without even finishing the sentence, John threw the paper down into his lap and looked up at Sherlock with a frown. “Happy couple?” he echoed. “Happy couple? Who in their right minds would write something like this!”

“Who wouldn’t?” smirked Scottie.

“This isn’t funny, young man.”

“So people think you’re having sex,” Emily shrugged. “Big whoop. The rest of it’s true.”

“As if you didn’t care what people were saying about you,” John growled.

“That’s because people only ever have good things to say about me,” she told the man rather matter-of-factly. “See for yourself.” Emily gave a nod towards the stack of papers, and Scottie took the next one off the top and flipped to the first article concerning them.

“Okay here we go…” Scottie muttered, starting to read the article to himself. His eyes got larger and smaller several times before he threw an incredulous arm out at the newspaper, smacking it. “WHAT BULLSHITERY IS THIS?” the boy demanded to no one in particular.

“What’s it say?” Emily asked, starting to look worried. “Is it about my wardrobe? Oh my God I bet they’re going off on me for repeating outfits, aren’t they?!”

Scottie looked confused. “What? No. That’s… That’s really stupid. Emily. C’mon.”

“Why is it always the hat photograph?” Sherlock was asking in the background, evidently oblivious to the rest of the conversation. “What sort of hat is it anyway?”

Scottie his head. “Okay no but seriously, this is just disgusting,” he said, getting back to his main point. “It’s no secret that junior detectives Scottie and Emily are not blood relatives, which begs the obvious question, is there something more going on between the two best friends?” read Scottie.

Sherlock went on flipping a deerstalker about in his hands, unphased by the others: “Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?”

Emily looked utterly horrified. “Is that really what people are saying?”

“It’s absolutely absurd, that’s what it is! Have they even met us?”

“At least you’re being… shipped with someone of the opposite gender!” John let out indignantly.

“That really wasn’t as comforting as I think you meant it to be,” glowered Scottie.

“I’m sorry, is no one else bothered by this?” Sherlock said loudly, holding out the hat and finally addressing the other three.

“Not really,” John, Scottie, and Emily all answered at once.

“Okay, this is too much.” John scooped up all the newspapers in one motion and brought them over to a nearby recycling bin. “We need to be more careful.”

“What do you mean, more careful?” Sherlock asked.

“I mean that isn’t a deerstalker now; it’s a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that Scottie and Emily aren’t just a couple of kids we happened to befriend one day; now we really have signed up to be their mummy and daddy and half the country is watching like we’re the Kardashians or something! I mean that you’re not exactly a private detective anymore.” John held up a hand, showing Sherlock his thumb and index finger about an inch or so apart. “You’re this far from making the whole household famous.”

“Oh, it’ll pass,” shrugged Sherlock. He retreated to his arm chair and melted into his base pose with his hands pressed together in front of his chin.

“It’d better pass,” John warned. “The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they’ll turn on you.”

“Yeah and all that stuff about Emily and I needs to stop, that’s not even a little bit true,” Scottie said, nodding vigorously.

Sherlock lowered his hands. “It really bothers you.”

“What?”

“What people say.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock looked a little surprised, if not flattered. “About me? I don’t understand - why would it upset you?”

“For fuck’s sake this isn’t just about you,” Emily rolled her eyes. “Shipping wars are fine as long as I’m not a part of them. At least not if they aren’t involving celebrities or, y’know, guys that are actually attractive.”

Scottie held out his hands, offended. “You really could’ve just said straight, you know.”

“I know what I said.”

“Just try to keep a low profile,” John begged Sherlock. “Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news.”

\---

“Check it!” Emily shouted excitedly, slapping down a plastic card on the table in front of Sherlock.

The man glanced up from his microscope, announcing, “It’s a driver’s license.”

“It’s my license.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell from the photograph.” Sherlock turned back to his work disinterestedly. “Although I suppose it figures that you and Scottie haven’t the skill to procure fakes.”

With a frown Emily snatched her license back and shoved it into a wallet. “Hey, instead of being a smartass, why don’t you try congratulating me like a normal person for a change?”

“Most people pass on their first or second attempt.”

“Well, you know what they say,” the girl muttered with a sarcastic smile. “Fourth time’s the charm.”

“Okay, so maybe it isn’t all that impressive,” Scottie chimed in from where he’d been hovering in the kitchen doorway, “but it does mean Lestrade can’t pull us over for heading out on our own anymore. Also we won’t have to worry about cab fares after she gets a car.”

“She’s not getting a car,” John grumbled from the hallway. He had just come out of the bathroom next to Sherlock's room and was wearing a bathrobe with a towel hung around his neck like a scarf and his hair still wet. Gladstone trailed after him with an almost stupid grin, tail wagging and nails clicking against the hard floor.

“Aw, but Dad!” Emily whined.

"Don’t you ‘but Dad’ me,” the ex-army doctor shot back.

"I will 'but Dad' you, because right now you're certainly acting like a butt, Dad!"

"Ooooooooooh!" Scottie crowed, his hands cupped over his mouth. "Did someone call for a medic, because it looks like we've got a SICK BURN over here!" He and Emily both chuckled and high fived one another.

"Butt Dad?!" John scoffed, stiffening. "What happened to Dr. Fun Times?"

"You tell me, Professor Buzzkill," Emily sneered. "Dr. Fun Times would let me have a car."

"You're eighteen, for God's sake! You never even leave the house except for when joining Sherlock and I on cases! And do you have any concept of how much insurance and gas and parking around the city is? Who do you think will end up paying for all that, exactly? Besides, we already let you keep a pet, which is kind of a big deal. Don't push your luck." John shook his head in utter disbelief at the request and pushed past Scottie and Emily on the way into the living room. He stopped in the kitchen doorway to peer up at a dummy that was strung to the ceiling with a noose.

"Oh, Henry Fishgard never committed suicide," Sherlock explained, glancing up from his microscope. He picked up a book from in front of him on the table and slammed it down again. "Bow Street Runners: missed everything."

"Sherlock, tell John I'm responsible enough to own a car," Emily pleaded, crouching down next to the man.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked over at her as she gave her most winning smile. "I'm not going to lie for you, if that's what you want."

John retrieved a newspaper from the coffee table and took it back to his armchair with a grunt. Gladstone got distracted upon seeing Scottie and dug a tennis ball out from underneath the table, which he then brought to Scottie.

"Not now," Scottie told the dog. "You're gonna break half the things in the flat."

"This is bullshit," Emily groaned and came into the living room after John. She plopped down on the couch and took out her phone. Gladstone made a whining noise and took the ball over to Emily. Emily glanced up over her Kim Kardashian app at the animal and sighed. "Alright fine. We could probably both use a walk anyway." She then took the tennis ball from him and started to go outside, Gladstone bounding after her with his floppy tongue out.

Not too much time passed before Sherlock's cell phone went off from the living room. John lowered his paper somewhat and scowled at the device. "I'll get it, shall I?" Getting up to retrieve the mobile himself, John read through the incoming text and his face went blank. "Here," he finally said, bringing it to Sherlock.

"Not now, I'm busy," came the detective's distracted grumble.

"Sherlock..."

"Not now."

"He's back."

Sherlock finally lifted his head at this. The man took his phone, paused to read the text for himself, and then sank back into his chair with a forward stare. There was an uncomfortable silence that followed. From behind his chair, Scottie began waving an arm in front of Sherlock's face to make sure he was still with them. Sherlock almost immediately slapped it away and stood up, taking the phone from John to see for himself.

“What’s going on?” Scottie asked, as if he didn’t already know. “Is it… Is that Moriarty? What did he say?”

“Not from him,” corrected John. “Apparently the man broke into the Tower of London, Bank of England, and Pentonville Prison just before getting himself arrested. They’ve got him in custody and awaiting trial right now.”

“Damn. Heads must be rolling.”

John nodded, eyes wide with disbelief. “I bet. Three of the country’s most secure facilities… Can you image?”

“I’m being called as a witness,” Sherlock told them, still keeping his gaze fixed down at the phone.

“We’re attending the trial?” Scottie looked excited.

“I’m going to the trial.”

Scottie scooted closer to Sherlock and looked up at him with puppydog eyes. “Yes. And I’m coming with you.”

“Not this time,” came the detective’s stern reply.

 

“C’mon,” pleaded Scottie. “Let’s discuss this rationally. The fucker had Emily shot, remember? I want to see him go to jail just as much as anyone else. ‘Sides, maybe Willow will be there, or he’ll say something about her, or--”

“No, I’m sorry, but Sherlock’s right,” John interjected. “You’re not coming and that’s all there is to it. This is court, for crying out loud, not a crime scene; they don’t let just anyone into there.”

“I hope you appreciate the irony of what you just said.”

\---

“May I?”

The trial had come and passed, along with its infamous result: not guilty.

Sherlock held a hand out to his guest, indicating him to have a seat in John’s armchair. “Please.”

Instead Jim Moriarty instead made himself comfortable in Sherlock’s chair and got to work on carving something into the apple he had in his hands with a pocket knife. Sherlock remained almost disturbingly calm through all this. The consulting detective set down his violin nearby and started to pour two cups of tea.

“You know when he was on his death bed,” Moriarty started, “Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end…”

“And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it,” Sherlock finished for him.

“Couldn’t cope with an unfinished melody,” Moriarty said distractedly.

“Neither can you. That’s why you’ve…” Sherlock paused, swearing for half a moment that he heard something downstairs. He shook his head. “That’s why you’ve come.”

“But be honest: you’re just a tiny bit pleased.”

Sherlock was about to respond when there it was again, this time louder than before. A rhythmic thudding that echoed through up the stairs and through the flat’s floorboards. “What, with the verdict?” Sherlock finally asked, choosing to ignore the music. He picked up one of the teacups, poured a bit of milk into it, and then offered it to Moriarty.

Moriarty straightened and took the cup from him. “With--”

But he didn’t finish his sentence just yet, because the music doubled in volume and now it was very obvious what the song was, it being so loud that the lyrics could be heard perfectly at any point in the entire building, if not the half of Baker Street.

“‘CAUSE I KNOW WHAT THE GIRL THEM NEED,” Jason Derulo’s voice rang out. “NEW YORK TO HAITI. I GOT LIPSTICK STAMPS ON MY PASSPORT. YOU MAKE IT HARD TO LEAVE.”

“Noisy neighbors?” Moriarty asked, having to raise his voice above the music.

Gladstone, who had previously been napping beneath the kitchen table, was woken up by the music and continued to lay there with his head lifted for some time before getting up and hurrying out of the flat to investigate.

“BEEN AROUND THE WORLD, DON’T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE, BUT YOUR BOOTY DON’T NEED EXPLAINING. ALL I REALLY NEED TO UNDERSTAND IS WHEN YOU TALK DIRTY TO ME.”

“I am so sorry,” Sherlock said, actually looking like he meant it. “I’ll, um… I can ask them to turn that down, just give me a minute.”

“No rush,” Moriarty sang, sipping at his tea.

Of course the music only got louder as Sherlock hurried down the stairs to the ground floor at entered 221C, which he was half surprised to find did have its door closed already. Gladstone was standing in front of it barking, but the barks were entirely drowned out by the music. Sherlock knocked and waited for a minute. When no one answered he knocked again, louder this time, but there really was no point in trying to be heard above Talk Dirty to Me. Finally he tried actually opening the door himself and found that it was unlocked already. Gladstone pushed past him and ran into 221C.

“I KNOW WHAT THE GIRL THEM WANT, LONDON TO TAIWAN. I GOT LIPSTICK STAMPS ON MY PASSPORT. I THINK I NEED A NEW ONE.”

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock came inside and made his way into Scottie and Emily’s room just in time to see them rocking out to an enthusiastic trumpet solo. Scottie was standing on top of his bed and using a toilet brush as his prop instrument as Emily stood on the floor in front of the two beds, a toothbrush that had previously been used as a microphone in one hand as she bobbed back and forth, throwing her shoulders into the motion almost violently. When she saw Gladstone she got excited and danced around the dog, who continued to follow her movements with his head, tongue lolling.

“Could you please turn that racket down?” Sherlock asked politely. Not only did the kids not hear him over their earsplitting music, they also didn’t even see him come into the room. Sighing, Sherlock came over to Scottie, tapped him on his leg and tried again.

Looking over, Scottie smiled and waved back at the detective. Emily saw him now too and came forward, holding the toothbrush up to her mouth as she lip synced the 2 Chainz portion of the song and proceeded to dance around the older man:

“DOS CADENAS, CLOSE TO GENIUS. SOLD OUT ARENAS, YOU CAN SUCK MY PENIS. GILBERT ARENAS, GUNS ON DECK. CHEST TO CHEST, TONGUE ON NECK. INTERNATIONAL ORAL SEX.”

Sherlock couldn’t possibly have looked more shocked and alarmed at this. He shoved Emily out of his way and sprang to the source of the music so fast he may as well have made it in a single step. The detective pulled out the speaker cord in one swift motion and Talk Dirty to Me cut out, a silence like none other filling the room in its place.

“You could’ve just politely asked us to turn the music down,” Scottie whispered.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Sherlock demanded. “I am upstairs with a very important guest, and I had to leave them unattended because you two factory reject dildos are down here pretending you actually have enough friends your own age to throw a party at that volume!”

Scottie glanced over at Emily. “Did he just call us…?”

“I’m pretty sure he did,” Emily answered, looking every bit as surprised as he did.

Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing: “Now, if it’s alright with you, I am going to rejoin my guest upstairs, and I expect you both to stay down here and keep absolutely silent. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

“Can’t we just come with?” Emily asked, entirely ignoring his previous statement.

“No,” Sherlock said without any hesitation. “I mean it. Quiet, and stay put.” He started towards the exit and Gladstone began to follow him. “You too,” he told the dog. Scottie went to Gladstone’s side and crouched down, petting him so that he wouldn’t follow Sherlock out. Sherlock slammed the bedroom door on them and then, seconds later, the front door to the flat.

Scottie stood and went to open both doors for Gladstone. “Be free, friend,” he told the animal, stroking Gladstone’s back as he went back into the building’s lobby.

Emily stood for a moment with all her weight on one leg and then went to plug the speaker back in, this time more than halfing the volume. The speaker was plugged into her computer, which was still on shuffle and Say Something (I’m Giving Up On You) was now playing.

Scottie hovered in the doorframe for a bit. “Hey, did you say you wanted me to teach you how to slow dance?”

“I did,” Emily said. “It was after I helped you master the Handshake Song and I said that would be my payment eventually. Although this isn’t traditionally a slow song.”

“It’s close enough.” Scottie stood up and came into the open space in the room. “C’mere. It isn’t very hard, I promise.”

“Alright, but do you want me to do the guy part because I’m taller or--”

“Emily, I swear to God if you mock me I will call John and tell him about some of those lyrics you sang to Sherlock.”

Emily put the song on repeat until she could remember the steps without Scottie having to say them out loud to her, at which point he nodded at her and said “Congrats. You now know the thing.”

Emily fist pumped the air victoriously before going to turn off the music before she went insane from hearing the same song too many times. Gladstone came padding back into the room with a ball in his mouth, which he brought up to Scottie and sat down, wagging his tail cheerily. Scottie got onto one knee and held out a hand.

“Drop it,” he instructed. Gladstone obeyed the command, letting the ball drop into Scottie’s open hand. “Good boy!” Scottie cooed, scratching the pleased dog under its chin with his free hand. Scottie then looked down at his other hand and realized that the slobbery object he was holding wasn’t a ball at all, but an apple. He turned it in his hand to see the letters I O U carved into the side of the fruit.

\---

“Sorry I took so long!” Emily exclaimed, hurrying over to the Lestrade, Donovan, and the Baker Street boys from Molly’s car, which she had just parked next to Lestrade’s in the driveway in front of the boarding school they were at. “There was, um… traffic. Yeah.”

Scottie wasn’t far behind, being pulled along by Gladstone’s leash.

Sherlock remained unconvinced by Emily’s excuse. “Absolutely gridlocked, I’m sure,” he said sarcastically. “Although I am curious as to how you successfully found a way to draw with charcoals while behind the wheel.”

A puzzled expression flashed across John’s face. “Emily knew that this was time sensitive. Why would you accuse her of stopping to do an art project in the middle of it?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took Emily’s arm, pushed up her jacket sleeve, and showed John the black smears running from the side of her left hand halfway to her elbow. The girl pulled away and began rubbing at the excess charcoal unhappily. “That doesn’t prove anything,” she shot back. “I could’ve just accidentally rubbed up against something dirty.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Well, yeah, but I could’ve.”

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. John pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“See, you wouldn’t have to worry about this sort of thing happening if I just had my own car,” Emily whispered. She looked over at Scottie. “Help me out here.”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” the boy shrugged. “I was ready to go on time.”

“Is that a dog?” Donovan asked, squinting down at Gladstone.

“Yes,” Lestrade told her. “They have a dog now. Haven’t you seen the papers?”

The woman raised a judgemental eyebrow. “So we’re allowing pets onto crime scenes now? And here I thought we were pulling strings letting the freak in. Next it was his new friend, then a couple of kids he picked up off the street, and now, apparently, some mangy mutt! What’s next?”

“Alright,” sighed Lestrade, “cool it. We’ve already talked about this, and I told them that as long as he doesn’t get in the way of anything…”

Donovan folded her arms and shook her head with disapproval. “I don’t believe you. And don’t you dare try and tell me you don’t just have a soft spot for their family, because we both know that’s complete bull.”

John cleared his throat and stepped between the two officers. “Uh. Excuse me, but I think we’re getting a little sidetracked. Kidnapping, remember?”

“Oh. Yes. Right. Eh-hem.” Lestrade stepped beside Sherlock and pointed towards a sobbing older woman a little ways away. “Miss Mackenzie, House Mistress. Go easy.”

Without thanking him, Sherlock made a beeline for the woman. “Miss Mackenzie,” the detective started, “you’re in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night.” His voice rose now, startling the poor lady: “What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?” In one swift motion Sherlock pulled a blanket from around Miss Mackenzie’s shoulders. “Now quickly, TELL me!”

“All the doors and windows were properly bolted!” Miss Mackenzie whimpered, looking up at Sherlock fearfully. “No one - not even me - went into their room last night. You have to believe me!”

“I do,” Sherlock said, reverting back to his normal calm self in all of .2 seconds. “I just wanted you to speak quickly. Miss Mackenzie will need to breathe into a bag now,” he told the nearby police officers on his way back to the others. “Well? Shall we have a look, then?” he asked pleasantly, stopping in front of the group and clapping his hands together.

Donovan threw a harsh look at Lestrade just before whipping her shoulder around and starting towards the school interior. The others followed suit, but just as they were getting to the front steps of the dormitories, Scottie was stopped by someone he didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t have any animals on school property,” the man told him.

“But he’s with the police,” Scottie half lied. “He’s a police dog. In a manner of speaking.”

“And you?”

“I’m also with the police,” the boy insisted.

The stranger frowned. “You’re just a kid.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Lestrade said, coming back to flash the man his police badge. “Now you’d best let the boy and his dog through.”

Although he didn’t look happy about it, the man backed off and Scottie, Lestrade and Gladstone hurried after the four, who first made their way to the girls’ room.

“Six grand a term, you’d expect them to keep the kids safe for you,” John was saying as they entered the sleeping quarters. “You said the other kids had all left on their holidays?”

Seemingly not wanting to waste time talking with them, Sherlock was already hard at work scouting out the entirety of the room. He first dug through a cupboard beside one of the pink beds and then dropped to his knees, looking beneath the bed for anything that might point him in the right direction. Gladstone excitedly tried to join in on the search, but Scottie wrapped the dog’s leash around his arm and kept him out of the way.

“They were the only two sleeping on this floor,” Lestrade informed him. “Absolutely no sign of a break-in.” He paused for a moment as Sherlock picked up a lacrosse stick, holding it out in front of himself like a sword for mere moments before tossing it aside again and starting towards a wooden trunk. “The intruder must have been hidden inside someplace,” the DI continued.

Inside of the trunk Sherlock found a sizeable paper envelope with a red wax seal, already broken. Sherlock inspected the object for a moment before sliding a hardback copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales out from the packaging. He set the book down again and got to his feet. 

“Show me where the brother slept.”

The consulting detective was then taken to a second dormitory, where he took almost no time at all in figuring out which bed belonged to the kidnapped boy. Sherlock looked at the bedroom door, which had a frosted glass panel through it, and held an arm out towards the bed.

“The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He’d recognize every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door.”

“Okay, so…?” Lestrade pressed.

Sherlock looked only slightly annoyed at the man’s inability to keep up with him. “So someone approaches the door who he doesn’t recognize, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon.” Suddenly entirely immersed in his theory, Sherlock darted out of the room and pulled the door until it was nearly shut. Holding out a hand as if it were a gun, he posed momentarily at the opposite side of the glass and then came back inside. “This little boy, this particular little boy… who reads all of those spy books… What would he do?”

“He’d leave a sign?” John guessed.

Now Sherlock took up a cricket bat, sniffed at both ends, and set it down again in order to sniff around the bedside table. Sherlock reached underneath the bed and pulled out a little empty bottle of something. He looked up again. “Get Anderson.” Lestrade nodded and stepped out of the room.

“Is it just me or do those two remind you of us?” Emily asked her partner.

Scottie made a face. “Who? Sherlock and Lestrade?”

“What? No. The ambassador’s kids.”

“You mean the ones that we haven’t found yet and as such have no possible way of having met?” Scottie reminded her.

Emily noticed that Donovan looked over suspiciously as she said this. “Yes, those kids,” she replied. “I just mean, like, with the sibling thing, and how the boy’s collection of spy books isn’t entirely unlike your fascination with detectives. Also they’re American and there was that one time we were abducted…”

“Um. Okay. Your point being?”

“No point, just pointing out some similarities,” the girl shrugged.

It wasn’t too much later when Lestrade returned with Anderson. Sherlock explained to him what he needed and they immediately got to work on darkening the room, closing its wooden blinds and setting up a large UV light on the wall beside the boy’s bed. As they were doing this Scottie took the opportunity to pull out several glow sticks he’d had stashed in his pocket especially for the occasion and started to crack them to make himself glow in the dark bracelets.

“Ooh, give me a couple of those!” Emily said excitedly, taking a two from his hands.

“Who just carries around glow sticks?” Donovan asked, looking a little confused. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you knew there were going to be UV lights.”

Emily blinked guiltily. “What? No. H-How could we possibly know that?”

“One doesn’t need an excuse to have glow in the dark fun,” Scottie tried. “I like to be prepared for any number of shenanigans.”

Donovan squinted back but otherwise said nothing. The UV light was switched on and now the words “HELP US” could be seen scrawled across the wall.

“Linseen oil,” Sherlock muttered thoughtfully.

“Not much use,” shrugged Anderson. “Doesn’t lead us to the kidnapper.”

“Brilliant, Anderson.”

The other man looked genuinely surprised for half a moment. “Really?” he asked.

The next line Scottie and Emily recited along with Sherlock: “Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot.”

“He says things like that a lot,” Emily told Donovan knowingly. “Not weird at all. I promise.”  
“The floor.” Sherlock pointed at the ground and shone his own light closer to it. They could now see that there were a set of greenish footprints going from the edge of the bed out the door.

“He made a trail for us!” John gasped.

“The boy was made to walk ahead of them,” Sherlock deduced, following the trail.

“Oh, what, tiptoe?” asked John.

“Indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head.”

The group followed Sherlock as he came out into the hallway and stopped suddenly, a sizeable puddle on the floor in front of them. All eyes slowly turned towards the teens, who were in the very back.

Scottie looked down at Gladstone, more impressed with the dog than anything else. “Dang. I didn’t even see do that. Talk about stealth!”

“And this is exactly why we don’t let non-certified animals onto the scene!” Donovan let out an aggravated groan.

Even Sherlock looked like he was trying not to get mad. Rather than yelling at the kids, he squeezed back through the clump of people and took Gladstone’s leash from Scottie, turning and handing it over to Anderson, who looked surprised by the gesture.

“Your services are no longer required,” Sherlock announced. “Now please wait with the dog outside the premises.”

“B-Wh-Why me?!” Anderson sputtered.

“I’m going to count to one,” Sherlock said sternly.

Lestrade held up an arm and dropped it again helplessly. “Just listen to ‘im,” he sighed.

“One.”

Anderson let out a huff and snatched away Gladstone’s leash. He stepped over the pee puddle on his way out with Gladstone in the lead.

“Ew I don’t want Anderson handling my dog!” whined Scottie.

“Shush.” Sherlock now took a wide step over the puddle and came up to a window that they’d had covered with black paper moments ago. The man ripped away the paper, letting daylight come flooding in. Sherlock set his light onto the window sill and knelt down in front of it, taking out a mini tool kit to retrieve a plastic petri dish, which he set down at his side and let out a slight chuckle.

John tiptoed around the puddle along the wall and came to a squat beside Sherlock. “Having fun?”

“Starting to.”

“Maybe don’t do the smiling. Kidnapped children?”

Sherlock looked up from his work momentarily. “Too close to home?”

“Either way.”

“Hm.”

\---

On their depart from the boarding school Scottie and John piled into the back seat of Molly’s car with Gladstone between them. Emily got into the driver’s seat and Sherlock into the passenger’s.

“Where to, Mr. Holmes?” Emily said playfully as she fastened her seatbelt.

“Pit stop at the flat,” the detective decided. “Then Saint Bart’s Hospital.”

“What do we need from Baker Street?”

“It’s not what we need but what we don’t need,” Sherlock elaborated.

Scottie wrapped his arms around Gladstone’s neck protectively. “You said he could come with us if he didn’t hinder the investigation!”

Sherlock looked over the back of his seat with a stern look directed at the boy. “A privilege he’s now lost.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Scottie urged, kicking at the back of Emily’s seat with his knee. “Just go straight to Saint Bart’s.”

Emily started the engine. “Sorry, buddy. He’s the boss.”

After dropping Gladstone off back at the flat, the foursome made their way to Saint Bartholomew’s, where they stopped Molly just as she was coming out of the building.

“Molly!” Sherlock said in an uncharacteristically chipper tone.

“Oh, hello,” the woman greeted them, looking a little startled. “I’m just going out.”

Sherlock put his hands over Molly’s shoulders and turned her back around. “No you’re not,” he told her decisively.

“I’ve got a lunch date,” Molly tried, despite already being ushered inside by Sherlock.

“Cancel it. You’re having lunch with me.” Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bag of chips from each, showed them to her, and then stuffed them away again.

“What?”

“Need your help,” the detective went on. “It’s one of your old boyfriends; we’re trying to track him down. He’s been a bit naughty!” Completely inside now, Sherlock turned to smile back at Molly, who had stopped in her track several steps behind him.

John, who had also halted, stared back at Sherlock. “It’s Moriarty.”

“Course it’s Moriarty.”

“Er, Jim wasn’t even my boyfriend,” Molly clarified. “We went out three times. I ended it.”

“Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly.” Sherlock brought out his chips once more and went through another door.

“I don’t know,” Scottie started, looking up at Molly. “You dumped Moriarty. I’d say that’s pretty fucking badass. Admirable, even.”

“Y-You think?”

“Sure! Not that you knew it at the time but…”

“Oh, and these are yours!” Emily handed the woman back her car keys. “As usual, thanks a lot for giving me access to it.”

Molly took the keys with a smile. “No problem. Except… Well, I had assumed after you got a proper license you’d be looking into buying your own. You are, aren’t you?”

Emily ever-so-slowly shifted her eyes over towards John, who held out a stern index finger before she could even finish the motion. “Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t even think about asking again.”

“Too late,” the girl whimpered.

The door at the end of the foyer flung open again and Sherlock leaned out on the doorway, looking vaguely frustrated. “Perhaps I didn’t stress the urgency of said lunch date?” he pressed.

Shortly afterwards the group had relocated to a lab where Sherlock got right to work on examining the sample he’d collected from the dormitory’s floorboard under a microscope. Molly had since changed into her lab coat and came into the room carry two additional folded white coats, and pairs of goggles.

“What’s this?” Scottie asked as she came up to them.

“Well, what kind of lab assistants would you be without proper safety attire?”

“The kind that still have dignity,” Emily wrinkled her nose. “Sherlock doesn’t have to use anything except gloves half the time.”

“Come now, let me have my fun playing dress-up,” Molly begged.

Scottie took his half of the outfit and started putting an arm into the lab coat. “You don’t have to tell me twice!”

Sighing, Emily took the other coat and started to put it on but wouldn’t accept the goggles. The three of them then joined Sherlock around the counter he was working at. Each putting on a pair of latex gloves, they proceeded to assist Sherlock’s project mostly by handing him things. Or, rather, Molly would hand the objects to one of the kids who may have otherwise not known what to grab, and they would then give it to Sherlock. After only several minutes of this Molly was squeezing some liquid or another into a glass petri dish.

“I need that analysis,” Sherlock told her.

Molly dabbed a pit of Litmus paper into it and Scottie peered over the counter with interest as it turned blue.

“Alkaline,” she concluded.

“Thank you, John.”

Molly turned her head slightly. “Molly.”

“Yes.”

To say that Emily was bored with this method of solving cases was an understatement. While the others were distracted, she slipped away from the scene as discretely as she could and rejoined John, who was towards the opposite end of the lab now.

“How’s it going over there?” John asked, looking up as the girl approached.

“Give me something to do that doesn’t involve science,” she demanded. “I don’t care what it is just give it to me.”

“Oh. Um. Well, I suppose I have some of the police photographs taken at the school. We could have a look through those together, if you think that’ll help.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve chemicals or math we’re good,” Emily muttered.

John pulled out the pictures and began flipping through them slowly, holding them out at an angle so that Emily could see as well. They’d gotten halfway through the stack without any major breakthroughs when Emily lifted her chin to see Molly leaving the room. Emily looked down again and flipped to the next photo. This one was of the wooden trunk, the envelope with the seal still inside of it. John’s eyes widened and he pulled the stack of pictures closer to himself and flipped quickly to the next one: a close-up of the seal itself.

“Sherlock,” he said, looking up.

“Hm?” came Sherlock’s distracted voice.

“This envelope that was in her trunk.There’s another one.” The doctor paced up to where he had taken off his jacket.

“What?”

“On our doorstep. Found it today.” John pulled a similar envelope out from his jacket pocket and had a look at it. “Yes, and look at that. Look at that. Exactly the same seal.” John circled round and handed the envelope off to Sherlock.

“Way to withhold evidence,” Emily muttered, joining them around the countertop.

Sherlock reached into the envelope and took out something so small the others couldn’t see from where they were standing. “Breadcrumbs.”

“Uh-huh. It was there when I got back.”

“Hansel and Gretel,” Scottie said out loud as he leaned forward to get a better look for himself.

“You think?” Sherlock asked, turning his head.

“Isn’t it obvious? Two children, a boy and a girl. The breadcrumbs. That book of fairy tales. It all fits.”

“Indeed it does,” Sherlock agreed. He set the envelope down on the counter in front of himself.

“What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?” asked John.

“The sort that likes to boast. The sort that thinks it’s all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me… All fairytales need a good old-fashioned villain.” Sherlock adjusted his microscope and looked back into it. “The fifth substance; it’s part of the tale.” The man looked up again, his face serious. “The witch’s house.”

“What?”

“PGPR!”

John wasn’t any less confused by this explanation. “What’s that?”

Sherlock jumped to his feet and hurried towards the exit, saying, “It’s used in making chocolate.”

John looked from Scottie to Emily. “Are you guys getting any of this?”

“More or less,” Scottie said. “He thinks he knows where the kids are. Or, rather, where to start looking.”

“That’s good enough for me,” John took up his jacket.

\---

“Hot chocolate…” Emily mumbled, breaking off from the rest of the group and clearly on her own personal mission.

“Seriously?” Scottie sighed, stopping to wait for her. “Do we have to do this every single time we come to the Yard?”

“Yeeeee…” Emily purred upon locating the coffee machine that also made free hot chocolate that she loved oh so very much. She pushed a button on it and watched with interest as steaming hot chocolate ran down in a stream into her paper come. Scottie tapped his foot against the ground impatiently. Once it had finished Emily took the cup and she and Scottie continued through the doors Sherlock, John, and Lestrade had just disappeared behind.

“...asphalt, brick dust, vegetation,” Lestrade was reading off of a paper by the time the kids arrived on the scene. “What the hell is this? Chocolate?”

“I think we’re looking for a disused sweet factory,” explained Sherlock.

“We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?”

“FUCK!” Emily gasped, stumbling backwards and splitting a bit of her drink. “I burnt my tongue,” she told the adults, who were facing her now. “Sorry. Continue.”

Sherlock turned his head back to Lestrade. “Too general. Need something more specific. Chalk, chalky clay… That’s a far thinner band of geology.”

Emily touched the tip of her tongue with a finger. “Aw man, ‘is gon’a feel ‘eird thor days!”

“That’s what you get from being impatient,” Scottie shrugged.

“You thut uh fuhck up.” Emily took her finger out of her mouth and wiped it off on her jeans.

“Brick dust?”

“Building site,” Sherlock said. “Bricks from the 1950s.”

Lestrade rubbed at his face. “There’s thousands of building sites in London.”

“I’ve got people out looking,” Sherlock went on.

“So have I.”

“Homeless network - faster than police.” Sherlock smiled snidely. “Far more relaxed about taking bribes.” Sherlock’s phone went off several times. The detective took it out, looking pleased with himself, and looked through the messages. “John.” he said after a couple moments of this and held the phone out for his flatmate to see. “Phododendron ponticum. It matches. Addlestone.”

“What?” Lestrade asked confusedly.

“There’s a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything.” Without any hesitation Sherlock whirled around and scurried out of the office. John darted after him.

“Here we go again,” Scottie breathed, gearing up to join in on the chase. “You ready?”

Emily looked sadly down at her hot chocolate. “But I just…”

“Right, come on,” Lestrade instructed his team, who didn’t appear to be in nearly as much of a hurry. “Come on!”

Emily stared longingly after her drink, took one more sip, promptly burnt her tongue a second time, and then set it down on a random nearby desk.

\---

As they expected to, they found the two children at the sweet factory. The boy was unconscious and had been dropped off in intensive care while his sister was taken back to the Yard with them. Lestrade and Donovan took a turn talking with the girl private as Sherlock and John waited patiently outside to have a go. While they waited Emily snuck back into the break room to make herself a new hot chocolate.

“As you sure that’s a good idea?” Scottie asked, leaning against the wall.

“Unfinished business,” the girl insisted. She filled a second cup of hot chocolate and held it close under her chin as she paced over to the office windows and peered out at the nighttime cityscape. “Sometimes it reminds me of home, you know,” she exhaled. “Tall buildings, lights… You can hardly tell the difference when it’s dark out.”

“It is home.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Home-home. Where we were before all this.”

“Doesn’t look a thing like Tennesse,” Scottie commented.

“Shush. I’m reminiscing.”

Emily came closer to the window and pulled down a couple of the blinds with a finger from her hand that wasn’t holding the hot chocolate. Suddenly the lights from the office building across the street all came one at once and there it was, spraypainted in large letters across the windows: I O U. Emily gasped and pulled her hand back, dropping her cup in the process. The paper cup hit the ground softly, its dark contents spilling onto on the floor. The lights went out again and the message disappeared.

“What the fuck?” Scottie looked up.

“D-Did you see--”

Donovan entered the break room just then. She halted in the doorway for a moment. “Oh. I didn’t realize you kids were still here.” With a shrug, the woman passed them on her way to the coffee machine, which she inserted one of the little plastic coffee packages into. She then opened up the cupboard above the machine, pulled out a white mug, peered into it, and placed the object under the coffee machine’s spout and pushed a button. The machine started making percolating noises.

“Hey, Sally?” Emily piped up.

“Sergeant Donovan.”

“Right. Did Sherlock leave already?”

Donovan turned around and leaned her back against the counter as she waited on her coffee. “The freak? No, I don’t believe so. I just saw him a couple minutes ago. Worried he might leave you kids behind? Wouldn't be all that surprised if he did, you know.”

Scottie clenched his fists but said nothing. Noticing this, Emily went on, “Was there a scream?”

“Scream?” echoed Donovan.

“It’s just that, we thought we heard one from the little girl, but… maybe not?”

Donovan thought for a moment. The coffee machine beeped and started pouring out its contents into the mug. Donovan glanced over at it but let it continue doing its thing uninterrupted. “No,” Donovan answered. “Nobody screamed.”

"That's... weird. Are you sure?" Emily squinted.

"Why would she have? She’s safe now."

Emily looked over at Scottie, who shrugged back. "Because she recognized him as the... kidnapper...? Or at least thought she did? No?" Emily searched the older woman's blank face for some kind of acknowledgement that this had happened. She swallowed. "You know what, never mind. That's... That's good. Forget I said anything. I'm sure everything's fine."

"We should get going," Scottie said quickly.

Emily nodded. "Right. Um. Good talking with you, Sergeant."

Donovan picked up her coffee mug and sipped at it with a disinterested "Mm-hm." The two teenagers hurried out of the room and started quickly pacing down the hall.

"The hell was that all about?" Scottie said under his breath as they went.

"I don't know! I guess I just panicked, that's all. But what did she mean, the girl never screamed? Do you think she'd lie to us about something like that?"

The two of them stopped in front of the room they thought Sherlock and the others had been in. It was empty now, so they continued down the hall and towards the flight of stairs to the downstairs lobby.

"I doubt it," Scottie was saying. "Isn't trying to tarnish our hero's reputation in front of us, like, her signature move or whatever? Why waste an opportunity?"

Emily stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and met Scottie's eyes. "But then... then what does that mean for the episode? If the girl doesn't scream? Wouldn't that, y'know, change things?"

"Who cares? Maybe now they'll have no reason to turn on Sherlock. This could be a good thing. Like, for instance, has it ever occurred to you that we might be about to rewrite the ending? Maybe make it a happy one. No fake suicide. No depressed John. I’m just saying, if it were possible, theoretically, of course, we’re in just the position to do it..."

Emily looked doubtful. "This isn't a Disney movie. We're not gonna suddenly get a happily ever after instead of the scripted cliffhanger just by being here."

"I thought you were supposed to be Little Miss Optimism about these things?" teased Scottie. "What about Johnlock?"

The girl stiffened. "What about it?"

"You gotta get your head in the game! Remember the end goal!"

"We talked about this. Johnlock isn't the end goal."

"But--"

"Speaking of, here they come!" Emily waved to Sherlock and John as they approached. "You certainly took your time," she said to the both of them, a hint of uneasiness in her voice. "Anything exciting happen? Mm?"

"Emily..." Scottie warned.

John shrugged. "I don't know if that's the word I'd use."

"She didn't want to talk much at first, if that's what you're insinuating you want to hear more about," Sherlock began. "Practically had to pry it out of her. But apparently there were at least two kidnappers. She never saw their faces, so the sketch artist they brought in was virtually useless. We were able to gather that they were younger - adults, but probably only just - and one was female."

"Oh." Emily's eyes darted over to Scottie, who shrugged.

"Well, I'm sure we'll figure out who they were soon enough," the boy insisted. "Back to headquarters, then?"

Sherlock nodded. The three of them followed him out and waited at the sidewalk just outside the building. It wasn't long before a taxi cab pulled up, and Sherlock held open the door for John, who slid into the furthest seat. The detective got in next. Scottie took a couple steps forward, but Emily pulled him back by a sleeve.

“He was supposed to tell us to take the next one,” the girl whispered.

“So? Maybe he changed his mind.”

“You getting in?” John asked. He blinked up at the teenagers expectantly.

“We’ll, um, catch the next cab. There’s something I have to discuss with Scottie. Privately.”

“Suit yourself.”

Sherlock scooted closer to the door and shut it, leaving Scottie and Emily to stand in silence for a moment and watch the car drive away. “What the hell was that about?!” Scottie finally snapped. “Unless you were trying to give them some ‘alone time,’ in which case I just might be able to forgive you…”

Emily rolled her eyes. “No, genius. You know as well as I that all four of us can barely squeeze into the back together, and I wasn’t about to stick you next to Moriarty.”

“...oh.” Scottie nodded slowly. “Right. But, I wouldn’t have said anything!”

“Yeah, because that’s totally not suspicious at all.”

Scottie rolled his eyes. "Oh, shush. Maybe you're just being paranoid for nothing and we have Willow to thank for changing the situation or something like that."

A second taxi came around the corner then and Emily held up an arm, getting it to stop for them. Imitating Sherlock just moments before, Scottie held open the door for Emily. Of course, he didn’t follow through with the gesture and cut her off at the last second.

“221 Baker Street,” Emily told the driver bitterly and shut the cab door.

They had barely gotten going when a little TV screen lit up with some sort of jewelry ad. Scottie frowned. “Seriously? They’re already charging ridiculous fares. This is just insult to injury!”

“Uh, Scottie…”

The video began breaking up and was quickly replaced by Moriarty’s psychotic happy killer face. Scottie and Emily both went pale.

Hello! Are you ready for the story? the video began. This is the story of Lord Smartypants and Lady Showoff.

Lord Smartypants and Lady Showoff were the two most extraordinary children in the whole kingdom. Maybe they weren’t big and strong like the knights, but they were clever, and always seemed to know where a dragon was going to be before it even got there. One day, they met Sir Boast-a-Lot, who was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table. Sir Boast-a-Lot was so impressed with their abilities, that he invited the Lord and Lady to come live with him in the castle. But soon the other knights began to grow tired of their stories of how clever they all were, and how many dragons they’d slain together.

And soon they began to wonder, “Why are these children so special? Does anyone even remember where they came from?”

Ohhhh noooo.

Sir Boast-a-lot didn’t want to believe it, so all the knights went to King Arthur and said, “I don’t trust Lord Smartypants and Lady Showoff! Have they ever actually saved the kingdom from any dragons? They’re probably cons who are just taking advantage of our hospitality!”

And then even the King began to wonder... But that wasn’t the end of Lord Smartypants and Lady Showoff’s problems. No. That wasn’t... the Final Problem.

The end!

The screen went black and Scottie and Emily turned their heads to each other slowly. “We dun fucked up,” Scottie whispered, his eyes still fixed forward. And then, hardly breaking between trains of thought, suddenly lunged forward, wedging himself between the front two seats. “Hey, Moriarty, that was great! Do you think we could take home a signed copy on DV--OH MY GOD ABORT ABORT!” The boy flew backwards again, smacking into the leather seat behind him.

“The fuck was that?” Emily demanded.

“THAT WAS MOST DEFINITELY NOT A MORIARTY; IT WAS A ZOMBIE. I REPEAT, THIS VEHICLE IS BEING DRIVEN BY A ZOMBIE.”

“A zombie?” Doubtfully, Emily looked for herself and, sure enough, the driver’s seat was currently being occupied by a man who was unconscious and quite possibly dead. Thankfully not undead, but still not a much better scenario. Emily slapped a hand over her mouth and sat back. “No one’s driving.”

“What?”

“No one’s driving us,” Emily removed her palm. “The driver was drugged or something, I don’t know, but his foot is still holding down the gas. We’re gonna crash sooner or later. It’s surprising we haven’t already!”

“Well why don’t you stop explaining how we’re gonna die and start driving?” Scottie shot back.

Emily’s eyes widened. “Pardon?”

“You heard me! You’re the only one out of the two of us qualified to operate this thing, so do something about it!”

“You do remember I didn’t actually pass that written test, right? The examiner literally gave me my permit for looking cute. Literally.”

“Stop bullshitting me! You haven’t been able to shut up for five minutes about your license since you passed your driving test on the fourth try. I’ve also been in a car with you driving many times before and while it admittedly still isn’t perfect, technically you haven’t gotten into an accident yet. Notice I say ‘yet’, because in a matter of minutes at the most--”

“Yes, yes, I know!” Emily choked. “Thank you, Captain Obvious!”

“It’s Captain Sockarms!”

“You shut the fuck up with that! And I’m not gonna sit in the deceased dude’s lap! That’s where I draw the line!”

Scottie furrowed his brows frustratedly. “EMILY, YOU STOP BEING A WEENIE RIGHT THIS INSTANT OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL OPEN THIS DOOR AND JUMP OUT.”

“OKAY, OKAY! I’LL TRY!” Looking ten different kinds of uncomfortable, the girl squeezed her legs first into the front half of the cab and over the body. Stepping on the brake with increasing pressure, Emily turned the wheel. The taxi came to a safe, albeit jerky, stop halfway up the sidewalk, narrowly missing a stoplight. Once the cab was no longer in motion, Emily put the vehicle into park and jumped out of the car, stumbling up to the streetlight, which she leaned up against for support.

Scottie came up behind her. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Absolutely peachy,” the girl wheezed.

“So…” Scottie pursed his lips together. “So should we report this, or…?”

“And tell them what?” asked Emily. “The truth?”

“Yes! Well, no. Maybe just the cabbie having a heart attack and nearly killing us part.”

Emily shook her head. “It’d waste too much time. The episode is still in motion. Plus, after that little movie date I’d rather not get caught at the scene of a murder, if you don’t mind.”

“And if they dust the wheel for prints? What then?”

“I don’t know, okay! I just want to get back to the flat. Is that alright with you?” Emily took off walking without waiting for an answer. Scottie hesitated for a moment, glancing worriedly between her and the dead cabbie, before bounding after his friend.

"How did he die, anyway?" Scottie wondered aloud. "Because I've heard of stuff being put in the vents and if that's the case, then what if we've been exposed and--"

"I don't wanna hear it," growled Emily.

"Fine. But... just let me know if you start feeling nauseous or anything, alright? I understand that that was a traumatizing experience and I’m worried about you. Also if you pass out I don’t want to carry you back because it’s really far and I’d probably have to resort to dragging your body through most of it and people will probably give me really funny looks."

Emily marched onward, now holding out a middle finger for him to see.

\---

By the time the two of them had made it back to Baker Street they were exhausted and out of breath. Scottie and Emily stumbled up the stairs and pushed open the unlocked door to 221B, finally throwing their jackets to the ground in a hurry and flopping down on the sofa in defeat. Gladstone, who had previously been sleeping on the floor next to the couch, lifted his chin toward them. Satisfied, the dog stretched out his hind legs and shut his eyes again. John had been sitting in his armchair and also glanced up as they entered.

“Took your time, did you?”

“We walked,” Emily wheezed.

“What? Why? Did another cab not come?”

“Oh, it came alright… Say, you guys didn’t happen to have anything… strange happen while in your cab, did you?”

Sherlock squinted at them from across the room. “Strange how?”

Scottie looked away. “Oh, you know. Like children’s storytime with a serial killer.” Sherlock had an odd way of squinting even harder than he originally had been. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.” Scottie then suddenly threw his friend a serious look. “Hey, Emily? Can I have a word with you in private?”

The boy took Emily by her wrist and led her to the kitchen, past Sherlock and John, who didn’t question this. “I think we broke the episode,” he announced once they were no longer within earshot.

"Oh, so now it's okay to talk about this?"

“Sherlock never saw Moriarty’s video. Because he never saw the video, he never got out of the cab. He wasn’t out in the street to nearly get run over and then rescued by one of the assassins, who gets shot afterwards. He didn’t meet the assassin and now he isn’t in here searching for cameras! You see what I’m getting at, Emily? It’s a chain reaction. Except that it took a left turn somewhere and never got set off!”

“Yeah,” Emily agreed, “I started gathering as much as soon as we were featured in creepy storytelling with Richard Brook. Also back at the Yard, why I dropped my hot chocolate… That was because I saw the I O U thing. The message I thought was supposed to be intended for Sherlock.”

"And what Sherlock said earlier, about the killers being young and one of them definitely female - do think instead of making it look like Sherlock was involved, Moriarty is instead targeting... us?"

The kids fell silent again, now picking up on a second conversation going on in the living room. They filed back in to find Sherlock, John, and Lestrade talking in hushed voices near the front door.

“No,” Sherlock said louder now, eyeing Scottie and Emily from across the living room.

“What?”

“The answer’s no. They’re not coming with you.”

Lestrade shot a sidelong glance at the onlookers and then back at Sherlock guiltily. “Great,” the Detective Inspector huffed. “Now I’m the bad guy.” The man scratched at behind his ear as he turned to leave. Lestrade took a couple steps, stopped, and then backtracked once more. “I’ve grown fond of them too, you know,” he spoke up again. “But this isn’t my call. And... you have to admit, when you look at it from their perspective--"

“Goodbye, Inspector. Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan.”

Lestrade stood biting his lower lip for a moment before slipping out again without a response. An uneasy quiet hung over the room before Scottie blurted out: “Secrets secrets are no fun, secrets are for everyone!”

“They’ll be deciding,” Sherlock said after a while.

John frowned. “Deciding?”

“Whether to come back with a warrant.” He paced in the direction of the window, hands behind his back.

“Are we... under arrest?” Emily’s voice cracked.

“No,” John said rather quickly. “No. They can’t. The charges are ridiculous! You’re just kids! I know they’re for real.”

Sherlock glanced over a shoulder. “A hundred percent?”

“Well, nobody could fake being such obnoxious, irresponsible di--” John stopped himself from very nearly saying ‘dicks’ “--derps all the time!”

Sherlock pursed his lips into a tense smile. “Well. I’m sure they appreciate your unwavering loyalty." The man's straight face returned and he went on. "However, if I am going to take a side I can’t afford to have any doubts.” The detective lunged forward suddenly, throwing both hands over Emily’s shoulders and frightening her. “Emily. To what extent are you and Scottie affiliated with Jim Moriarty?”

Emily pulled away, offended. “He had me shot, might I remind you! But you’re right, what does that prove? Jim and I probably meet up every Saturday morning for coffee and discuss the most interesting murders we orchestrated that week!”

"So you aren't on friendly terms, then?"

"No shit, Sherlock!"

Now Sherlock turned to Scottie: “And your friend, Willow - she does work for him, correct?”

The boy held up a defensive index finger. “Alright, I can understand why this looks suspicious,” Scottie answered, “but we were pretty damn surprised to learn that as well. Not to mention we haven’t seen her since… well, yeah. The pool incident and everything.”

“And ‘the devil wears Westwood’? What did you mean by that?” Scottie went pale at this. Sherlock’s voice seemingly dropped a full octave. “Come now, it’s been two years but I know you haven’t forgotten,” pressed Sherlock. “And that wasn’t your first or only outburst that was relevant.”

“What is he going on about now?” John asked no one in particular.

“That’s what Scottie said to me when I first inquired about Moriarty, back on the night you shot that cabbie. It wasn’t relevant at the time, and so I left it alone, but now it might be crucial.”

Scottie and Emily were at a loss for words. Flustered, even. “I, uh… I plead the fifth?” Emily said softly. John tilted his head in confusion at this.

“It’s um. I-I-It’s ah… ah… uhm…” Scottie stuttered. “It’s c-complicated? Of course, there’s ah, uh, a p-perfectly logical reason behind everything that’s happened, but to explain so…”

John sunk down on the sofa, rubbing at his forehead in utter shock. “Oh my God…”

“What? No! No, it’s not like that!” Scottie tried desperately, suddenly seeming to regain the ability to speak clearly. “Moriarty is playing with both of your minds, too! Can’t you see what’s going on?” Getting angry and frustrated, Scottie slammed a fist over a table. John looked away.

“He’s right,” Emily nodded vigorously. “You have to know he’s right. Moriarty wants to turn you against us. Against each other. That’s his plan.”

“I can’t do this,” John said, shaking his head in disbelieve. “I… I’m going to call Lestrade. See if I can figure out what they know, or something. I… I’ll be back.” The man took out his cell phone and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sherlock slowly sank into his armchair and pressed his fingertips together in his usual fashion. “And pray tell,” he went on, “just why would he want to do that? What pleasure does a person get out of causing a family feud?”

Emily shrugged. "Uh, maybe because he's evil? Evil is as evil does; I don't fucking know what he's getting out of it."

Scottie glanced at Emily and exhaled. “Well, uh, see... we don’t actually know what his plan is anymore, because so much has changed by now.”

“Changed?” Sherlock questioned, eyes narrowing. “What has changed?”

“Us. We aren’t supposed to be here.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation.

“And I think Moriarty has figured that out,” Scottie added, breaking the silence. “And I think he is either morbidly curious about the hows and whys, or is angered by us getting in the way.”

“It is kind of hard to tell with him,” Emily agreed.

“Either way it’s bad news for us.”

“Getting in the way?” echoed Sherlock.

“Well… I mean, we assumed he was going to come after you, actually. Because of The Great Game and everything. But then that didn’t exactly pan out and instead, here we are, desperately trying to explain to you that we’re not who he’s got everyone convinced that we are.”

“If not that, then who are you really? I can tell that neither of you are lying, but you obviously aren’t telling the full truth, either, and you haven’t been for as long as we’ve both known you.”

“Uhm. On a scale of one to ten, to what extent do you believe in parallel universes? Like, one being ‘not at all what a ridiculous theory,’ ten being ‘oh yes absolutely in fact I was just in one last week,’ and five probably like… ‘well to be honest I’m not sure why do you ask’?”

Sherlock blinked. “Pardon?”

“It’s a… long story.”

“I have all night.”

Emily flung her arms out to the side dramatically. “Okay, yeah, but unfortunately we don’t, so you’re just gonna have to bear with us on this one and give us the benefit of the doubt!”

“Look, never mind the full story. Everything will make sense in time. I promise. But for now, if there is one thing I am definitely sure of,” Scottie began, his eyes darting around nervously, "it's that Moriarty is going to try to solve the problem by killing one to three of the people in this room. And John is not one of those people. Probably."

Sherlock sat up straighter at this. The detective opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by John, who reentered the room. The doctor had just gotten off the phone, shoving it into a jacket pocket.

"Well, we've still got some friends at Scotland Yard. That was Lestrade. He says they're on their way down here to make the arrest - everyone Sherlock ever made feel like a tit, which is quite a lot of people." Scottie snorted, which was responded to by an unamused frown from John. "I'm sorry, is this whole ordeal funny to you?"

"You said 'tit.’"

John sighed. Sherlock looked away, an almost eerie calm about him. "How comforting to know they'd so eagerly ruin the lives of two young people just to get back at me. Of course, that would be assuming the Yard isn't barking up the wrong tree for once."

Mrs. Hudson suddenly came into the room carrying an envelope. The older woman paused, apparently feeling the tension in the air. “Oh, sorry, am I interrupting?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away, so instead the woman turned her attention to Emily, who was closest out of the bunch. “Some chap delivered a parcel. I forgot. Marked ‘perishable’ - I had to sign for it. Lewis and Claus... Is that right? You never did mention your surnames before, did you?”

Emily took the envelope from Mrs. Hudson with a confused countenance. Sure enough, her and Scottie’s last names were scribbled on the front side of it. Scottie came closer and peered over Emily’s shoulder with interest.

“Funny name, too,” Mrs. Hudson was saying. “German. Like the fairy tales.”

The girl ripped open the thing and pulled from it two gingerbread men, thick and burnt.

“Um.”

"I dare you to lick one," Scottie murmured.

"What?" Emily spun around and smacked his upper arm with her hand. "Ew, no! Das gross!"

“Burnt to a crisp,” Sherlock muttered seemingly to himself, peering from over their shoulders. He offered out a hand towards Emily. Stuffing the cookies back into their envelope, Emily gave the thing to him so that the detective could have a closer look at its seal.

They could hear several police sirens from outside now. “What does it mean?” John asked, presumably still referring to the gingerbread men.

The sirens got louder and louder and then stopped all at once. Within mere seconds there was both a pounding at the door and the doorbell went off. “Police!” a man’s voice called out.

“I’ll go,” Mrs. Hudson offered. She hurried downstairs as the banging went on uninterrupted.

The others stood in a tense silence and waited. The conversation downstairs was difficult to make out, but a few words stuck out, among them Scottie and Emily’s names and an “Evening, Mrs. Hudson.”

“We need to talk to you!” a woman’s voice called up the stairs.

John disappeared through the doorway without a word.

“Don’t barge in like that!” came Mrs. Hudson’s voice.

“Quick, I think we might be able to get through the window in time if we go right now,” Scottie tried, beginning to look worried as he tugged at Emily’s arm.

“We’re on the second story,” the girl protested.

Without a word Sherlock set down the mail on the coffee table and picked up their two jackets from where they’d left them. He handed each to their owners. Scottie and Emily took them and put them on slowly.

“Have you got a warrant?” John was saying from a little ways away. “Have you?”

“Leave it, John,” Lestrade warned.

“Really! It matters!” insisted Mrs. Hudson.

Moments later they were in the flat. A couple of armed officers came right up to Scottie and Emily and slapped a pair of handcuffs on their wrists, attaching the teenagers to one another.

“Uh, what are their surnames, exactly?” Lestrade asked.

“Lewis and Claus,” Mrs. Hudson answered knowingly. “Almost like those explorers.” Her eyes then widened all of a sudden and she held a hand up over her mouth. “Oh! Sorry - was I not supposed to say? Was that a secret?”

“It’s fine,” Scottie said weakly. “I’m… I’m Scottie Lewis.”

“Emily Claus,” Emily said at about the same volume.

“Well then. Scottie Lewis and Emily Claus,” Lestrade started to read, “I’m arresting you both on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping.”

“They’re not resisting.” John sounded panicked.

To be perfectly honest, Scottie and Emily were both too stunned to do much of anything, much less give the policemen a hard time.

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock assured his flatmate.

John shook his head profusely. “They’re not resisting. No, it’s not alright. This is ridiculous!”

“John--”

“They’re children for fuck’s sake!”

“Get them downstairs now,” Lestrade instructed one of the officers. The other man nodded and took Emily by her shoulder, ushering her towards the door as a second officer held onto Scottie and pushed him in the same direction. As they passed by Mrs. Hudson they saw that she was beginning to cry.

"Take care of Gladstone for us," Scottie told the woman. She nodded, having to turn away to keep them from seeing her sobbing more.

John came up to Lestrade, hoping to stop him from leaving. “You know you don’t have to--”

“Don’t try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too!” Lestrade threatened. In all honesty he sounded just as upset by the whole thing as anyone else involved.

“John, don’t,” Sherlock urged.

John blinked quickly, obviously trying to keep from tearing up. “They’re my kids,” he said to Sherlock, dropping his voice. “Our kids. No matter how you look at it, despite all they’ve put us through… We’re the closest thing they’ve got to parents. And as a parent, I can’t just stand by and let something like this happen to them! I would take a bullet for them! You know I would!”

“They’re adults, John. They can take care of themselves.”

“It’s not about whether or not they’ll take care of themselves. It’s about us always being there for them.”

“And if it’s true?” Sherlock shot back, his voice dead serious. “If they really are connected to Moriarty? Sentiment is only going to hurt you in the end.”

The doctor shook his head defiantly. “I don’t care. Whether or not what they’re saying about them is true, I’m not going to abandon them. And neither should you.” And with that, John pushed past his flatmate and followed the police officers downstairs.

Their wrists still cuffed together, Scottie and Emily were told to wait pressed up against the police vehicle outside the building while the adults finished discussing matters just out of earshot. Emily was scared, as was obvious from the way her eyes darted around aimlessly. 

“I’m sorry,” she kept saying. “I’m so, so sorry…”

“Don’t be. ‘Sides, guess who has a plan? That’s right. This guy.”

Emily met Scottie’s eyes, her own wide with a mix between worry and interest. “You do? What is it?”

Scottie forced a smile. “Well. You remember what happened in the original episode…?”

“Wh--no! Absolutely not! I say we just let things run their course. If it comes down to it, a jury isn’t likely to condemn a couple of kids as cute as us, right? Right?”

“And what if they do?” Scottie's face became grim again.

Emily looked away. “I… I don’t know."

“I’m gonna do it,” decided Scottie regardless. Before Emily could stop him, he reached for the radio inside the police car and activated it, setting off a high pitched noise that temporarily crippled a few of the policemen. While they were distracted he stole a handgun from one of their belts and held it out, hands shaking profusely. Emily probably would’ve been impressed at his managing to pull it off the same way Sherlock had if she weren’t so frightened in that moment. “Everybody on your knees!” Scottie yelled.

The police exchanged glances but didn’t obey. A few of them laughed audibly. John took a couple cautious steps towards the now armed boy. “Scottie,” he pleaded, “don’t do this. Just… set the gun down. Please. You don’t want to make your situation any worse than it already is.”

But Scottie didn’t drop his weapon. Instead he fired a warning shot into the pavement a foot or so away from John’s feet. The entire crowd jumped, smiles now wiped off their faces. John scrambled backwards. “I’m not fucking around!” he yelled again, louder than before. And then a bit more calmly: “I don’t want to kill anyone, but I’m a very easily startled person and my aim is pretty bad, so if I were you I wouldn’t make any sudden movements or, y’know, that sort of thing.”

The men looked to one another stupidly.

“Do as he says,” Lestrade finally instructed. Although reluctant, the group did so with minimal complaint.

Emily lifted a hand nervously as if she were volunteering to answer a question in class. “Uh, let it be said right now that this was entirely his idea and I have absolutely nothing to do with it. Again for you slower folk: he’s the madman here, I’m… I’m just, um…”

“My hostage,” Scottie finished and brought the gun to Emily’s head.

The girl nodded vigorously. “Yes. His… Wait, no!” Her nodding quickly turned to shaking. “No no no no no, I don’t like this plan anymore! As you said, you’re far too jumpy to be trusted with that thing aimed at me!”

The teenagers inched backwards, away from the kneeling clump of policemen and Sherlock and John. Scottie and Emily were now halfway across the street and no one seemed to be making an attempt to stop them. It was at this point that Scottie decided it was time to make a run for it. He lowered the gun and took Emily’s hand in his own. “C’mon,” he instructed, pulling her forward.

“I’m never gonna forgive you for this!” Emily hissed, hurrying alongside Scottie as they bolted around the corner.

Not once looking behind them to see if they were actually being pursued, the boy and girl ran until they felt as if their legs were going to give out, at which point they dove into an alleyway, crouching behind a large metal garbage bin just in case. “Where are we even going?” panted Emily as she hunched forward. “The only people who are ever willing to lend us a hand or return a favor live on Baker Street, and that’s exactly where we’re fleeing from!”

Scottie pressed his back against the wall behind him. He had shoved the gun into his pocket, hoping to avoid drawing any unwanted attention because of it, but kept his hand firmly around the thing just in case. His other wrist was stinging where the handcuff had been rubbing against it as he ran, but he didn’t complain about this to avoid looking like a wuss to Emily. “Well, that isn’t necessarily true,” he answered, “because I can think of at least one person we ought to try.”

Emily furrowed her brows at the boy. “Who, Willow? I hate to burst your bubble, but we don’t exactly know where to find her even if she weren’t a probable cause of all this. Which if she isn’t she’s still probably involved one way or another.”

“That’s not who I meant.”

“No? Who else, then? Obviously not anyone at Scotland Yard. I hesitate to say Mycroft…”

Scottie shook his head. “Think closer to the original episode.”

“...yeah um, we didn’t exactly meet Kitty ourselves. Or know her address.”

“Molly,” sighed Scottie. “We’re going to Saint Bart’s to find Molly."

Emily’s eyes lifted with realization. “Oh. Right. Because we know she’s there right now. But, how do we know for sure Molly can and is willing to do anything for us?”

Scottie shrugged. He was currently trying to twist his hand out of its metal prison but having no such luck. “Unless you’ve got any better ideas…”

Picking herself up (and jerking Scottie to his feet along with her), Emily squeezed her eyes shut tightly and tapped her heels together three times, chanting “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” Once the girl had finished she opened her eyes again, scanned them across the alley, and let out a defeated sigh.

“What was that?” asked Scottie.

“My last idea. I am officially out of ideas. Shall we, then?”

“To Saint Bart’s it is!” Scottie exclaimed with a decisive nod.

\---

Still stuck less than a foot apart from each other at all times, Scottie and Emily made their way towards Saint Bart's. They held hands in an attempt to hide the handcuffs, the chain balled up between their palms and their jacket sleeves pulled as far down down their arms as possible. Just in case, the teenagers kept pressed next to one another while waiting for a cab, frantically looking over their shoulders every so often. Luckily they didn't run into the police at all and the few people that were on the streets didn't recognize them. A taxi did come eventually and they slipped into it, handcuffs still hidden.

Not wanting to draw any suspicion from the driver (who they double checked wasn't Moriarty beforehand), Scottie and Emily avoided talking about their current predicament. Instead they discussed various TV shows, forcing themselves to laugh as if nothing was wrong all the way. Once at Saint Bart's, Emily paid the cabbie with her free hand and they darted inside of the building as quickly as possible.

Upon entering the facility the kids immediately let go of one another's hands. They were quiet, and as such the sounds of their breathing and echoing footsteps were twice as loud as usual. The place was spooky at night. Although it had been unlocked, very few of the lights remained on aside from the long and winding hallway through the structure.

They were just rounding the corner when they heard a third pair of footsteps coming towards them. Scottie and Emily stopped just as Molly rounded the corner. The woman let out a surprised shriek upon seeing them. Embarrassed, she held a hand over her mouth and was silent for some time.

"Uh... hi," Scottie greeted her awkwardly.

"You... You startled me," Molly breathed. "Twice in one day, no less. H-Hello. Um. Sorry, but what are you doing here so late? I was going to lock up soon. Did Sherlock send you for something?"

"What? Oh, no, um... Actually we came because we need a favor." Emily smiled weakly.

"A favor?" echoed Molly. "What sort of favor?"

Scottie and Emily lifted their arm enough to show the woman their problem.

"And we may or may not need a place to crash tonight," Scottie added. "Because we're kind of maybe fugitives."

"Scottie!"

"What? I'm sick of lying to everyone all the time. Is that not what got us into this position in the first place?”

“Well… I mean sort of? But they would’ve thought us crazy otherwise, and I don’t see how that’s any better.”

Molly had a rather vacant look about her. “I’m… sorry, is this some kind of game or practical joke, maybe? You’re absolutely sure Sherlock didn’t put you up to this? Because I don’t… I don’t get it. It is supposed to be funny, right? That’s the sort of thing you guys do - get into trouble and make people laugh while looking cute doing it.”

Scottie raised an eyebrow. “And I’m… not exactly sure what you’re implying, but I’m completely serious about what I said. Emily and I… Look, we got into a spot of trouble, okay? It’s kind of a long story, but basically we came asking for your help. And also you’re not allowed to tell anyone we’re here.”

“I’m going to call John,” Molly announced, finding her phone. “It’s late and he’s probably worried sick about--”

“No!” Scottie and Emily both shouted frantically.

“Weren’t you listening to what I just said?” Scottie went on. “He can’t know we’re here! I wasn’t kidding about the whole fugitives in hiding thing!”

Molly was still gripping her mobile tightly with one hand, as if in the midst of debating whether to go through with the call or hear the boy out. “You’re… You’re not serious, are you? What did you two even do?”

Scottie looked to Emily, hoping that she would do a better job explaining.

“It’s, um… As we said already, it’s a long story. One that we’ll be happy to completely lay out on the table just as soon as we’re sure that we’re somewhere safe enough to do so.”

The woman waited just long enough to make them start to worry before finally putting the phone away. “Alright. Fine. You both can spend the night at my place, but I won’t make any promises past that. After you’ve explained yourselves, then I’ll decide what has to be done about it, even if that means calling Sherlock and John.”

“And you also promise to not make any judgements on the matter until you’ve heard our side? No matter what you see or hear before then?”

“Uh.”

“Just say deal.”

“Um, okay? Deal. Now, should I help you out of those cuffs before we head out, or…?”

“Yes please.”

\---

Molly lived in a small second-story flat. Upon arrival, Scottie and Emily were immediately greeted by a white and brown cat. “I believe you’ve already met Toby,” Molly said whilst locking the front door. “He’s real friendly with strangers. Loves the attention.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Scottie smiled. Having been released from his metal bondage, the boy was now free to crouch down and pet the cat without worrying about taking Emily with him.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” offered Molly on her way past them. “There’s water, milk, tea…”

“No thanks,” both teenagers answered her.

“You sure? I’ve got some some biscuits, too. Made them this morning, so they should still taste very fresh. Would you like some?”

“Uh, no, I’m good.”

“Same.”

Molly nodded awkwardly. “Oh. Alright. Um, if that’s it then, then why don’t you… take a seat and we’ll get right to it.”

Forcing themselves to get up from where they’d planted themselves in order to bond with Toby, who was currently rolling around on the carpeted floor purring, Scottie and Emily made their way to the living room couch. It was facing a TV against the wall, which sat in front of several windows with drawn curtains. Molly joined them shortly after they’d taken a seat, first setting a plate of cookies down on the coffee table in front of them and then sitting at the opposite end of the couch from Scottie and Emily.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but they’re really good and I made a lot so I figured I ought to put them out anyway, y’know, just in case,” Molly explained. “They’re chocolate chip.”

Emily stared at the tray in debate with herself for a couple seconds before finally reaching forward and taking one. "Whelp. I suppose since you already went through the trouble of bringing them out..."

Not wanting be rude but also in no mindset to be sitting on a couch enjoying cookies, Scottie followed his friend's example and took one as well. He inspected it in his hand for a bit until forcing himself to break off a piece and taste it.

"Well?" Molly pressed.

"They're good," Emily answered, swallowing. "The fact that half of London is currently searching for us? Not so much."

Molly took a deep breath and looked away. "Oh. Yeah. We should... probably talk about that. But first - Scottie - would you mind taking out your concealed weapon and putting it aside? Just... Just to give me some peace of mind. Please."

The boy's eyes widened. He obviously didn't expect Molly to know about that. Looking like a kid caught with his hand in a candy jar, Scottie took the gun out from his jacket pocket and carefully set it down on the short table in front of them. "I... Okay, yeah, I know that this looks bad. But. I promise you I never used it."

"Except for when he shot at the pavement," muttered Emily.

Scottie frowned. "I swear to God, Emily, either you're helping my case or SHUTTING THE FUCK UP."

"He had no intention of using it to hurt anyone," Emily elaborated. "Probably."

Molly pinched at the bridge of her nose. "Where did you get it? John?"

"Nicked it off a policeman."

The woman dropped her hand, stiffening. "Wait. You mean you stole a firearm off of a police officer?"

"...okay yeah I realize that sounds bad too. But you gotta understand, he had us handcuffed and they were going to take us in unless SOMEONE did something, and Sherlock and John weren't helping! I saw it on the original... well, on a TV show. A-And it worked, right? I mean, Emily and I are here, as opposed to locked up behind bars somewhere. Which is a good thing. I think."

"You shouldn't have done something like that if you were innocent in the first place," Molly pointed out sternly. "Now you've really committed a felony. What were you even being arrested for in the first place?"

Emily bit at her lower lip before answering. "Uh. Kidnapping and abduction, I believe?"

"Kidnapping?!"

"Well we didn't actually do the thing," Emily tried to explain. "That's just what Moriarty got everyone thinking. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg! The police probably suspect us of every other crime Sherlock helped solve in the past two years, they just don't have enough evidence to pin them on us yet. But they will. When Moriarty wants something, he gets it."

"But... why would the Scotland Yard think a couple of kids were involved in an abduction? They know you both, too."

Emily shrugged. "It's... complicated, but apparently they have their reasons. From what I understand they believe that Jim Moriarty is a made up concept, and Scottie and I are actually responsible for everything he's done."

Molly made a face. "I hear what you're saying, but... I'm not sure I quite follow. Why would anyone buy that accusation? Surely you must have done something wrong, if even Sherlock couldn't get you out of it?"

"Alright, look," Scottie took over, "if you're not going to give her 'the talk,' then I will. Someone ought to know the full truth. Even if Molly can't do anything to help is out, then at least one person will know what really happened."

Emily let out a long, drawn-out sigh and turned to Molly. The poor woman looked more confused than ever.

"Whatever. Just... promise you won't... freak out on us or anything, alright?"

“Jesus Christ, you sound like you’re about to show her you have super powers or something,” Scottie said under his breath.

It was unclear as to whether Molly believed their story once they’d gotten to the end of it. She wanted too, but who could blame her for having doubt to some degree? Regardless, she offered up her flat to the two fugitives. At least until they could come up with some better plan of action in the morning.

“You still up?” Scottie asked, staring up at the dark ceiling.

“...yeah,” came Emily’s voice from a little ways away.

“Hey, Em…”

“Mm?”

“Did you ever think it would end like this?”

The girl thought for a moment, stroking Toby as he walked over her on the floor of Molly’s living room. Toby stopped on top of the middle of her chest just long enough to stick his butt into Emily's face before continuing on his way. “Well. The cat is a surprise,” she admitted.

Scottie smiled a little at this, but it quickly faded away once more. “What are we going to do?” he asked the ceiling quietly. “I mean, it’s not like we can just hide away in Molly’s flat like a couple of criminals forever, and the longer we hide, the more guilty we look…” The boy flopped over then, propping himself up by his elbows, and turned his head to Emily, despite hardly being able to see her in the dark room. “We should meet up with Moriarty.”

“What are you, insane?!” she shot back with no hesitation.

“Find out why he’s doing this. What he wants. Try to reason with him... It’s what Sherlock would’ve done.”

“That was different,” Emily muttered. “First off, we’re not Sherlock. We’re not interesting or unique or super good at any one thing. Nobody would watch a show about us.”

“I would,” Scottie interrupted.

“Shh. I’m not finished. Secondly, there’s no reasoning with Moriarty. I’m not sure he’s even human. He’s just a… an idea written down and put into print a hundred years ago or something, which was then adapted into a British TV character in a modern-day interpretation of the original books. And we don’t stand a chance against something like that.”

Scottie frowned. “By that same logic, so are Sherlock and John and everyone else here.”

“They don’t count.”

“Why? Because they’ve never tried to have us killed? Gimme your phone. I know you still have his number on it.”

Emily turned her head away. Scottie held out an expectant hand in the darkness.

“C’mon, Em - unless you’ve got a better idea…”

“Fine. I’ll do it.” Emily sat up and took out the pink phone. The screen was so bright in contrast that it lit up half the room. Emily squinted, turning down its brightness a bit. “Goddamn, it’s like its only two settings at night are ‘dim’ and ‘the Messiah has returned’,” she mumbled to herself. “Alright, what do you want me to say? Meet on top of Molly’s building? Do we even know how to get onto Molly’s building? Or what the formal address is?”

It was just light enough now to see Scottie roll his eyes at this. “No need to get creative. We can make it atop Saint Bart’s as well.”

“I seriously doubt Molly is going to give us a ride back over there and then unlock the building for us. Especially after we tell her why we’re going.”

“Maybe not, but you’ve driven her car plenty of times before, and I happen to remember where she left her keys…”

“You’re not serious.” Emily’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, you are serious!”

“Shhh!” Scottie leaned closer to her. “Not so loud; the last thing we want is for her to wake up and hear all of this… But yes, I am. There’s already a warrant out for our arrest. And we’ve technically stolen Lestrade’s car once before, so it’s nothing new. What difference is one more little theft going to make?”

Emily stared frustratedly down at the phone before beginning the text. She paused after a moment and looked up. “What time should I say?”

“What time is it now?”

“3:56.”

“No wonder I’m exhausted. Say seven. That should give us plenty of time to sneak out and get over there before Molly gets up.”

Emily finished typing the message and let it send. The cell phone went dark after a bit and the room was once again engulfed in blackness. She heard Scottie roll over onto his side.

“You should try to get some sleep,” he said softly. Almost in a whisper. “Might not get another chance.”

“I know.” Emily laid down again and stared up at the ceiling some more. “Scottie?” she said after a minute or so of silence. “I don’t know if I can sleep, after everything that’s happened.”

“...I know.”

By the time 6:00 rolled around, neither Scottie nor Emily were sure how much time they had actually spent sleeping and for how much of it they’d just laid awake. Like they’d talked about several hours earlier, they forced themselves to their feet just before the sun started to come up, grabbed a couple Poptarts for the road, took Molly’s work and car keys from where she’d hung them up the night before and stole out of the flat. The London streets were mostly empty at that time, and, after having looked up the route to Saint Bart’s Hospital, they had little trouble getting there and inside unnoticed.

“How are we on time?” Scottie asked as they navigated their way up a stairwell towards the top of the deserted building.

“A little more than ten minutes early, but I’m sure it’s fine. I hope he does actually show up. He never texted back.” Although despite these words, there was a part of her that actually hoped he didn’t.

Moriarty did show up. He was there waiting for them on the rooftop, sitting at the ledge with his phone out and playing Staying Alive, just as they expected him to be.

“Ah. Here we are at last,” the man said over the music. “Scottie, Emily and I, and our problem - the Final Problem.” He lifted the phone even higher. “Stayin’ alive! It’s so boring, isn’t it?” Moriarty then cut the music off and looked up at the kids for the first time. “It’s just… staying. Is that why you left?”

Scottie and Emily came closer, but made sure to keep a good distance between themselves and the consulting criminal. “I’m sorry?” Scottie said weakly.

“All my life I’ve been searching for distractions. Sherlock was the best distraction I had for a while there, but then he led me to you. And now I don’t even have the both of you. Because I’ve beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy… Now I’ve got to go back to playing with the ordinary people.”

“I wouldn’t say Sherlock was ordinary,” Emily pointed out.

Scottie put a hand on Emily’s shoulder and stepped in front of her slightly. "Why are you doing this?" Scottie demanded. He narrowed his eyes at the older man.

It was strange how differently he felt about Moriarty now. Sure, he was a crazy consulting criminal with a thing for murder and being creepy, but as a fictional character he was much easier to admire. In person Moriarty's good looks and quirkiness were far less redeeming. And now, after everything he had put them through, Scottie and Emily were just finally starting to fear the man. And rightly so.

Moriarty grinned a too-wide grin and stood up, getting dangerously close to the others now. "Why?" he echoed. "Why, because it's fun. The most fun I've had in ages..."

"I-Isn't it Sherlock you want, though?" Emily tried again. She could feel hairs at the back of her neck standing up and didn't like it in the least.

Moriarty let out a forced laugh that died out towards the end. "Oh no... You thought you had me all figured out, hadn't you? My my, this is rather embarrassing," he purred. "I admit, I did have somewhat of an... obsession with Mr. Holmes last year, but that was before it occurred to me: what if Sherlock was merely a puppet, and there was really someone else pulling the strings?"

Scottie swallowed. "Sherlock isn't a fake."

"Oh, sure he's smart, I'll give him that much. But he's got nothing on either of you. Scottie Lewis and Emily Claus, the children who could see the future... Sherlock could keep up with the game. But you were always a step ahead. Almost like you’ve already seen it played out before. Isn't that right?"

Scottie glanced over at Emily, who shrugged helplessly. "Um. So like. Are you wondering how, or...? Because I mean if that's all you want from us..."

The man pursed his lips into a sly smile. “Still don’t get it, do you? I couldn’t care less about where you came from, how you got here… The fact of the matter is, you are here now, and you don’t belong. You must realize that.”

“We can’t go back,” Emily pleaded. “We don’t know how.”

"I have a few ideas," the consulting criminal purred. Moriarty came forward. Instinctively, Scottie and Emily huddled closer together, keeping their eyes fixed on the larger man as he circled them ever so slowly and full of confidence, like they were his prey and he was merely toying with them before the kill. “Two birds with one stone,” he said in a sing-song voice, coming to a stop with most of his weight put onto one foot.

“I’m… sorry?”

“You don’t belong here. You know it. I know it. And who knows? Ridding this world of you two might just be doing it a favor. At the same time, it would absolutely crush Sherlock Holmes. He pretends not to care, but, well.” The corner of Moriarty’s lip rose into a cold grin. “I think that we can all agree that that’s not quite true.”

“Look, why don’t you quit monologuing and get to the punchline already?” Emily demanded, trying to look braver than she felt in that moment. “And we know all about your stunt with breaking into those places, with there not being a real key or whatever, so you can skip that bit while you’re at it.”

“Adopted Holmes children proved to be just a cover,” the man went on. “I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales.” Moriarty paused for all of a moment before stepping closer to the edge of the roof and peering over it. The children followed after him uneasily. “And pretty Grimm ones too,” Moriarty said, looking at them out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, no no no no,” Emily said, stumbling backwards. “Absolutely not, my friend.”

“Okay Princess, let me give you a little extra incentive,” pressed Moriarty, looking first down at the girl and then to Scottie, who was now a foot or so away. “Your friends will die if you don’t.”

“Sherlock,” Scottie said, fear coming into his eyes.

“John,” Emily said in an equal manner.

“Everyone.” Moriarty’s voice was a taunting whisper now.

“Mrs. Hudson?” asked Scottie.

“Everyone,” Moriarty repeated.

“Lestrade?”

“Everyone.”

“Molly?” “Mycroft?” each of the kids asked in succession.

Even Moriarty was looking a little ticked off now, but only just. “Okay, do you not know what ‘everyone’ means?” he seethed. “Because it quite literally means ev-ery-one!”

There was a pause before Scottie pointed out, “There’s no way you have that many snipers set up at this very moment.”

“You got me,” Moriarty shrugged. “Not everyone, per say. Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There’s no stopping them now… unless my people see you jump.”

Scottie and Emily frowned at one another.

“Wait. So Sherlock and John are a given, but… which one was the third?”

“Someone who is probably rather offended that you didn’t guess her name in your original batch,” the consulting criminal told them. The teenagers’ eyes widened in realization. “Mm, yes, you had forgotten about poor, innocent little Willow, hadn’t you?” Moriarty mocked. “And to think, you were willing to take a bullet not all that long ago on her behalf. Some friends you really turned out to be, which only proves my point further still. Now, here’s the deal: you can have me arrested. You can torture me. Even though I seriously doubt you are capable of any of these things, supposing you were, you can do anything you like with me. But nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. The three friends you care about most in this world will die… unless…”

“Unless we kill ourselves,” Scottie whimpered. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve made your point.”

“And if that’s not enough incentive, you did kindly provide me with a few more choice targets, should my selections not do the trick.”

“No, no. That’s… That’s a tempting enough offer as it is.”

“Then why the cold feet? If it meant saving your skins, Sherlock was be splattered across the pavement already.”

Scottie fumed at this remark. “No. No, he wouldn’t. You know what he would do in our position? I’ll tell you what he’d do: he’d say something clever, get you to put a bullet in your own brain, and then fake his suicide to get your stupid cronies off of his friends! And you know how I know this? Because, as you hinted at already, I’VE ALREADY SEEN IT HAPPEN.”

“Scottie!” Emily hissed through a clenched jaw.

“Oh, what’s the point anymore!” Scottie let out, throwing his arms out to the side in exasperation. “This is a TV show, we’re from the real world. There’s no sense in trying to deny it at this point. Moriarty knows something’s up, and that’s what’s got us in this mess in the first place!”

“And what’s being open about it going to do anyway, huh?” Emily threw back. “It doesn’t change our situation one bit! We’re still here, on top of Saint Bart’s, with Moriarty, who’s going to have Sherlock, John, and Willow killed because we’re not clever enough to outsmart him and also too chicken to do what he wants!” The girl huffed and turned her back to her friend. 

“This whole thing is bloody fucking trainwreck,” Scottie groaned, putting his head in his hands.

“You’re just getting that now, DOOFUS?” Moriarty exclaimed, getting far to close past Scottie’s personal comfort boundary and into the boy’s face.

"That's Captain Sockarms to you!"

Without warning Scottie suddenly threw his leg forward, kicking Moriarty square in the chest. The consulting criminal went tumbling backwards and fell from the edge of the building. Scottie lost his footing and began to topple after him, but thankfully Emily lunged forward just in time to grab the boy by the back of his shirt collar and pull him in again. The friends both were knocked over backwards, landing one on top of the other.

"Impeccable timing, Cadet Lotionwrists," the boy wheezed.

They lay there on the rooftop for a couple moments breathing heavily before Scottie stood up again and dusted himself off. He offered a hand out to Emily.

"What the actual fuck were you thinking?!" the girl demanded, picking herself up with his assistance. "You just threw Jim Moriarty off of Saint Bart's!" Emily inched towards the edge again and peered over it. Sure enough, there was Moriarty's body, lying broken on the pavement in a pool of blood. She cupped a hand over her mouth and looked away again.

"I..." Scottie was at her side now looking somewhat guilty. "Yeah. I suppose I did... But he was being a jerk and we were in a bit of a jam and… Oh my God I can't believe I just totally murdered Moriarty… I mean. Holy SHIT, man."

"I know he was going to kill himself anyway, but STILL..." Emily sunk to the ground again and stared blankly ahead of herself.

“Actually I don’t think he was now,” Scottie disagreed. “He didn’t feel like we posed as much of a threat to him as Sherlock would’ve. Plus, he was armed and we weren’t, since Molly confiscated the gun and all. So I basically just saved your life. You’re welcome.”

Emily hesitated before reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out the firearm, which she set down on the cement before her. Scottie looked down at it thoughtfully.

“Alert the media; it looks like we’ve got ourselves a badass over here.”

“Insurance,” Emily explained. “I didn’t want to have to use it. But… thanks to you, I guess I didn’t have to.”

“Well you certainly took your time with it…”

“WHERE IS HE?” a third person’s voice called out from somewhere behind them. Scottie whipped his head around and Emily scrambled to her feet to see a girl about their age standing near the ladder that had brought them up to the roof. She was wielding what appeared to be a machine gun and had it facing forwards as if she were ready to let loose with it at a moment’s notice.

“WILLOW?!” the teenagers simultaneously choked.

“I SAID WHERE IS HE?” Willow repeated.

“Who?” asked Emily.

“JIM MORIARTY.”

Wary of the girl he hoped was still his friend and even more so of the gun she was carrying, Scottie took a cautious step forward with his hands raised slightly to show her that he was unarmed. “Willow… what are you doing here?” he asked slowly.

Willow blinked in surprise. Like the answer should have been obvious. “What does it look like? I came to say goodbye… and then promptly fire 27 holes into the bastard’s chest with this baby.”

“Uh. You’re a little late for that,” Emily started to explain. She looked from Willow to Scottie uneasily, and then back at Willow. “Scottie already kind of knocked him off the building all kung fu master-like.” The girl nodded towards the edge of Saint Bart’s, indicating where the event had occurred.

Lowering her firearm, Willow came closer and stood between the two of them near the roof’s edge. She peered down at Moriarty’s corpse.

“Well fuck.”

Scottie rubbed at the back of his head guiltily. “Umm. Yeah. I… I did that. Surprised no one’s noticed down there, either. At least I don’t think the street would be sealed off this time.”

“It’s still early,” Emily shrugged. “More so than it was in the show, anyway. Maybe no one’s out and about yet?” She swallowed and met Willow’s eyes. “For real though, what are you doing here? Why would you want Moriarty dead?”

“Because he was after you guys. Duh. I may’ve done some things I’m not so proud of in the past few months but I still consider you both dear friends of mine and I wasn’t going to let Jim get to you if I could help it.”

“So… you knew about what went down? How he… How we changed the episode?” Willow nodded and Emily went on: “It’s just. It was hard to tell whose side you were on, you know? Last time we saw you you were with Moriarty, and then… I got shot and we didn’t know if you were dead or… A-And then he was threatening to have you killed if we didn’t jump, and--”

"I know," Willow cut her off. "I know and I'm sorry. I really am. It was... Things were complicated, alright? Came we just leave it at that?"

"I... Okay. I suppose." Emily took a deep breath and squinted out at the early morning view. “So what now?”

“We disappear,” Scottie said softly, his eyes fixed on the ground.

“Contrary to what you might think, Scottie, you’re not actually a miniature version of Sherlock. I happen to know for a fact that you don’t have some elaborate fake suicide scheme planned out.”

“Then it won’t be faked.” Scottie said, looking Emily dead in the eye.

“Wait, what?!” Willow let out from behind them. “No! Absolutely not! I didn’t come all this way with the intention of murdering my enemy (and subsequently one of the closest people I had to a friend in the past year or more) only to have you both kill yourselves anyway!”

“Yeah, let’s look at this rationally,” Emily tried. “I couldn’t bring myself to do the thing when Moriarty was here threatening the lives of people I care about. What makes you think I can go through with it now?”

“What choice do we have?” the boy threw back. “The assassins are still going to come after Sherlock and John if we don’t.”

“I can’t watch this,” Willow huffed, turning around. “I’ll be inside if you change your minds. And if you don’t, then… Well, I’m sorry, okay? About everything.” Obviously trying to keep from crying in front of them, Willow hurried down the ladder without another word and disappeared.

Emily shuffled around where she was standing for a moment, avoiding Scottie’s eyes. “You… really would die for a couple of fictional characters?”

“Fictional or not, Sherlock Holmes is real. They all are. You know that as well as I do.” Scottie paused, trying to hold back tears. “Maybe… maybe after we’re gone we’ll wake up in our own beds,” he went on. “Like you were saying all those months ago. Our real beds. Back home. Or maybe we won’t, but… I’d be okay with that. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Shit.” Emily bit at her lip and looked around helplessly. “That’s really our only option, is it? Then. Then yeah, I… I guess we’ve gotta do what we’ve gotta do… I’m just scared, that’s all.” Her voiced cracked at the end of the sentence and Emily started sobbing.

Scottie threw an arm around his friend. “Hey hey hey - it’s okay to be scared. And I totally get it if you don’t want to.”

“No, I’ll do it,” Emily said, pushing away and drying her eyes. She exhaled slowly and pulled out the pink cell phone from her jeans pocket, which she held out to Scottie. “Just how he would’ve, okay?”

“Okay.”

The event played out very close to what should have happened. Scottie called Sherlock, and in a matter of minutes he and John arrived at the scene. He spotted their tiny figures down below from where he and Emily stood side by side at the edge of Saint Bart’s.

“Stop there,” Scottie instructed into the receiver.

“Scottie?” came John’s voice. Apparently Sherlock had the thing on speaker phone.

“Look up now. Emily and I are on the rooftop.”

“Oh God…”

“Scottie. What’s this about? What are you and Emily doing?”

“Apologizing. It’s all true. Everything they said about Emily and I… How we knew all those things… We invented Moriarty. Used our ages to take advantage of you. Thought it would be funny, watching you two run around, solving our puzzles. Getting attached.”

“Stop it,” John demanded. “Stop it. This isn’t some big joke. Emily got shot remember? She wouldn’t have done that to herself. And - And you’ve been with us all the time! Where the bloody hell was a couple of kids supposed to find the time and resources to pull something like this off?”

“Willow helped,” Scottie lied. “She was our eyes and ears on the outside. The man you thought was Moriarty… He was just a puppet. Kept you off our backs. But as I’m sure you can see, we didn’t have much use for him anymore.”

There was a pause before: “Jesus Christ…”

“We can figure this out,” Sherlock said slowly. “We’ll talk about it. Find you a good lawyer. Whatever it takes.”

“Just… Just stay right where you are.” John took a step closer.

It was all Scottie had in him to keep from giving up the act and running to them. “No! No, you have to stay there! Don’t move! Please. Will you do that for me?”

“...alright?”

Scottie squeezed onto Emily’s hand tighter. “This phone call, it’s… our note. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note?”

“Leave a note when?”

“Goodbye, Sherlock… John…”

Mirroring the actual episode, Scottie shut the cell phone with one hand and threw it down to the ground. He glanced over at Emily.

“So. This is it, then? We’re really doing this?” she asked softly. 

The boy gave her a grim nod.

Emily swallowed. Her face was wet from crying. “To die would be an awfully big adventure.”

The words triggered a memory for Scottie, who tugged Emily’s hand with a small, sad chuckle. “If it’s any consolation, Emily... you made my life... an adventure.”

Emily choked on a laugh and started crying harder. Between sobs, she just managed to say, “A-And if it’s any consolation, Scottie, you m-made my life... r-rich.”

Scottie forced a smile and turned away again. He peered down at the ground several stories below.

“Whelp. See you on the other side, or whatever.”

\---

“Scottie! Emily!” John shouted into the mobile, but the line was already dead. With one arm he held onto Sherlock as they both craned their necks up at Saint Bart’s rooftop with horrified expressions.

John called out the teens’ names again just as he helplessly watched them step off of the edge. Sherlock started to lunge forward but was stopped by John, who was unable to watch now that he knew what was happening and had spun around and clung tighter to Sherlock, his hands now gripping onto the man’s coat, and planted his face into Sherlock’s scarf. Sherlock instinctively threw a protective arm across John’s backside but kept his head tilted upwards.

And then there was a loud swooshing noise, and something blue and boxlike seemingly materialized out of the side of Saint Bart’s. Scottie and Emily’s silhouettes disappeared inside of it and the thing started to vanish just as suddenly as it had come with the same sound as before. John turned his head around upon hearing the noise. He pulled away from Sherlock and quickly scanned his eyes down the building looking for some trace of Scottie and Emily, but they were no longer there. He and Sherlock snapped their necks around to exchange confused and somewhat distressed looks.

“That…” Sherlock blinked, searching for words. “That was… from that show you and Emily watch.”

John stared forward in disbelief. 

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“I… Yeah. That certainly sounded like the TARDIS.”

"What the fuck," the consulting detective let out, putting his hands to his head and staring forward with his eyes wide and mouth still slightly ajar.

Moments later the swooshing noise started up for a third time, and a blue police box materialized up against the side of Saint Bart's, this time flat against the pavement. Without a word Sherlock and John darted towards it. As they got there, stopping a good several feet in front of the strange object, the front door to the hospital swung open and Willow came sprinting out of it.

"Holy fucking SHIT!" the girl gasped, stopping beside Sherlock and John. "Oh. He-llo there, boys."

"Um."

But before they had time to ask if she knew anything, the front door to the TARDIS burst open, releasing a thick cloud of black smoke.

An older man that none of them recognized came stumbled out of the TARDIS, coughing and gagging. "How many tries will it take you to land her properly?!" he hissed.

"Oh piss off," a second girl's voice said. She stepped out of the TARDIS after him and Willow's eyes lit up.

"BLAISE? Wh-What are you doing here? And in the TARDIS, no less!"

"I could ask you the same thing," her other internet friend pointed out. "AANers shouldn't typically be able to spontaneously appear in BBC's London."

The smoke had mostly cleared by now and Scottie and Emily took several cautious steps outside and joined the others in somewhat of a ring in front of the TARDIS.

Scottie swallowed. "So um. Am I right to assume that almost everyone here is just as confused as I am?"

There was a collective nod from the group.

“Oh, yes, hello,” the stranger said, giving them all a little wave. “I’m the Doctor.”

“T-That’s impossible,” Emily managed.

Scottie looked over at her. “I thought he looked much younger? This is just some random old British dude no one’s ever heard of.”

“Just because you aren’t familiar with all of his regenerations,” Blaise scoffed.

“So you’re telling me this all real?” Emily asked excitedly. “Superwholock, that is? The ultimate crossover? Because this is, like, groundbreaking news for fangirls everywhere!”

“Calm down,” Blaise told her sternly. “Just because it’s possible doesn’t mean that it should be. The two of you alone very nearly tore this entire storyline apart. And you didn’t help,” Blaise added to Willow. “Alternate universes aren’t supposed to have any overlap. That’s what fanfiction is for.”

“I’m to take you three home,” the Doctor said, stepping forward. “Now hurry it up! Into the TARDIS, quick-like now!”

“H-Hang on!” John came forward and place a hand on each of the children’s shoulders. “What’s the meaning of all this? I demand answers!”

“Well haven’t they told you already? They don’t belong in this world. They belong in a parallel universe in America, with their friends and family!”

“But we are their family,” John pressed.

The Doctor nodded. “I know. And you’ve both done an excellent job raising them until I could get here.”

“I think we deserve more of an explanation than that,” Sherlock finally spoke up, looking every bit as concerned as John did.

“See this is what we were trying to tell you earlier,” Emily tried. “We’re not from this world. Everything that’s happened up until this point - well, most of it anyway - it was generally supposed to happen, just without us in the picture.”

“Oh my God you’re aliens.” John’s eyes grew wide with realization.

Scottie frowned. “W-What? No! No, we’re not aliens. Where we come from everything is exactly the same as here. Except, y’know, all this is a BBC TV show Emily and I were obsessed with.”

“That’s how we were able to say all those things at the same time as you, or know things about your cases that we couldn’t possibly have otherwise figured out on our own,” agreed Emily.

“That would also explain why I could never do a proper background check on either of you, or how you first came to London with no plausible explanation,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

“Yes! See? All the pieces are coming together and no one’s crazy after all!”

The Doctor clasped his hands together enthusiastically. “Right! Yes! And now that we’re all caught up and on the same page, might I suggest we get a move on?”

“Wh… No, wait!” John cried out again. “Things are only just beginning to make sense, and I’m sure be both still have so many questions to discuss! A-And you can’t just, just drop off a couple of teenagers on our front doorstep like that, let us grow fond of them over the years, until we’ve all grown fond of one another, and then take them away again, just like that!”

The Doctor shrugged. “Well. I don’t know if it was ‘just like that’. It took two years to build up to this point and, might I add, Scottie and Emily were about to commit suicide had I not interfered just when I did. I saved their lives. You’re welcome.”

“Do you really have to go?” Sherlock asked softly.

Scottie glanced over to Emily, who nodded ever so slowly. “Yes,” he told the detective, his voice sounding like he were fighting every last impulse to say otherwise. “There’s nothing left for us here. We can’t go back to the life we used to have together. Not… Not after everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours.”

“B-But if everything you’re saying is true…” John said. “I mean, if that’s the real TARDIS… It’s a bloody time machine, for crying out loud! Why can’t you just go back and get yourselves out of trouble? Undo whatever mistake it was that caused all this?”

“That’s what the plan is,” the Doctor told him. “We will use the TARDIS to undo not just one, but two mistakes. And they’re standing right in front of you.”

Scottie and Emily looked down guiltily, avoiding the other man’s eyes. John started to tear up again. “I don’t want to say goodbye,” his voice cracked.

“I know,” Emily said, holding back tears herself. “I love you.”

She and Scottie both embraced John in a tight hug around the man’s waist. Willow took a step, ready to jump in, but was held back by Blaise, who gave her a warning look. When they let go again, John was too busy sobbing to say anything else. Now Scottie and Emily went to give Sherlock a goodbye hug. The detective placed a loving hand over each of their backs and bent forward, planting a kiss on the tops of their hands.

“Try not to start any rivalries with unstable criminal masterminds back in the States, you hear?”

Scottie nodded, pulling away. “We’ll try.”

Sherlock ruffled his hair, half smiling. “That’s my boy.”

The Doctor, Blaise, and Willow got into the TARDIS and Scottie and Emily took their time following after them, walking backwards as to not miss a single moment of their last few minutes in London. Sherlock put an arm around John, who had composed himself just enough to wave one final time as the doors to the police box shut.

“The world just got a whole lot bigger, didn’t it?”

“...yeah.”

“Do you suppose we’ll ever see them again?” Emily asked Scottie. She kept her eyes fixed on the shut door, as if frozen in place.

“We may yet,” Scottie remarked wistfully and took her hand in his own.


	7. Many Unhappy Returns

Hunched over her desk with a palm pressed against her cheek, the teenage girl was well into her detailed sketch of Sherlock when she suddenly felt a teacher’s approaching presence. Emily grabbed several pages from her notebook and placed them strategically over her sketchbook just in time as her government teacher came and went. Once she was a safe distance away again, Emily pulled the drawing out again just enough to continue working and look like she was still taking notes on the boring White House documentary that was playing at the front of the classroom.

It was a Monday, and as if Mondays weren’t draining enough, Mondays also meant winterguard practice after school. It wasn’t that she entirely despised guard; Emily loved spending time goofing around with the people on her team, the sport kept her busy and in shape, and she liked using performances to show off all the neat tricks she’d learned with spinning flags, rifles and sabres. But even these aspects were overshadowed by the exhausting and time consuming practice schedule, during which the chance of self injury was at its highest. Yes, Emily loved guard, but the longer she spent doing it the more she grew to detest it.

That particular four hour Monday night practice wasn’t any more enjoyable than the last. It was unbelievably long, and by the time her coaches finally released them, it was already well past their 9:00 end time and Emily was out of breath, sweating, and knew that in fewer than ten hours she would be back there doing the exact same thing.

Once home, Emily knew that her bedtime was in less than an hour, and as such hurried to take a shower and shovel down a late dinner as her mom and sister got into their pajamas and started getting ready for bed. She still had homework, of course, but was in the habit of doing as much as she could in other classes the very day it was assigned and whatever she didn’t get around to was left until the next day, when she’d hurry to finish it up before it was due.

Emily glanced at the digital clock on her phone. She had less than a half hour before her mom would begin yelling at her to get to bed already. Still, she was determined to make use of the little amount of time she had left. Especially after she’d anxiously waited all day for it. Emily pulled her laptop out from underneath her living room couch and started it up.

Once the computer was up and running, a smile spread across Emily’s face as she logged on to And Another Note’s Tinychat, the website that she and her online friends used to have group chats together just about every spare minute that they had. But no sooner had she gotten to the page when her face suddenly fell, a look of dismay now upon it.

No one was online.

Swallowing, Emily stared at the time at the top right hand corner of her screen. 10:16 PM. No thanks to time zones, it would be three hours past then where Scottie was now. Already tomorrow. She wondered if he’d long since gone to bed or if she’d just missed him. Emily slowly closed her laptop with a sigh and slid it back into its place under the couch.

\---

Scottie hated college. Better than high school at least, and it was nice to be away from his parents again, but in all honesty he wasn’t much happier there. And who could blame him? After having spent the best two years of his life in an alternate universe London living with two beautiful males who technically speaking shouldn’t actually exist, being back in nonfictional America was dull and frustrating.

However, the times when he wasn’t pissed off at anything and everything around him were when he was online. The real world had begun to feel fake to him, but spending time with And Another Note, even if it wasn’t in person, reminded him that he did still have people who loved and cared about him, and even though no one else would ever believe him, they knew he wasn’t crazy after all. They were the proof that the time he’d spent away really did happen, and there was still a place that felt like home out there somewhere, even if he had no possible way of getting back to it.

It was snowing outside. Not the kind of light, fluffy snow that you saw in the movies. It was more of a wet, slushy downpour that made the campus pavement slippery and kept his loud roommates indoors. But he could think of at least one girl from sunny Southern California who would be utterly enthralled by it regardless, and that thought made the unpleasant temperature slightly more bearable.

Pulling his comforter up a bit, Scottie reached over and turned off his bedside lamp. Without thinking the boy instinctively called out “Goodnight Emily” to the darkness. Right away Scottie realized his error, but he waited for a moment for a response, just in case. None came. A quiet hung in the air and he lifted his head to have a look over his shoulder.

He was, of course, still alone.

Scottie let out a soft sigh and rolled onto his side.


	8. The Derpy Hearse

That morning following the incident atop Saint Bart’s, Scottie and Emily woke up in their own beds for the first time in years. Yet despite having been away from their respective homes for so long, upon returning the two teenagers quickly realized that absolutely no time had passed since the night they disappeared. The years were gone, just like that. In fact, they jumped back into their old ordinary lives so suddenly that at first they thought the whole thing was some big, crazy dream. But it couldn’t have been - it all felt so real, and Emily, Scottie, Willow, and Blaise all claimed to remember the bits that they took part in.

Coming back was bittersweet. Emily was thrilled to see her family, friends, and pets (Scottie not so much for the first two), but they both missed their fictional life. Rewatching the show was strange. In an attempt to relive their misadventures, Scottie and Emily had since collaborated on a series of “fan fictions” about the things they’d done in BBC’s London. Although not wildly popular, these were generally enjoyed by viewers online who hadn’t the faintest idea just how true their stories really were.

Another two years passed like this. Or perhaps they were the same two years all over again, but that hardly made a difference. Scottie turned 18 (again) and went off to college in Kentucky with Blaise, who assured him that the days of meddling with alternate universes were behind her. Emily also turned 18 for a second time but, being a year behind Scottie, was still a senior in high school.

Eventually the third season of the BBC Sherlock was released, and both teenagers watched it online at the first opportunity. More time passed, as Emily started getting positive responses back from the art schools in California she applied to. Scottie, on the other hand, dropped out of college and moved back in with his parents.

Not too long afterwards, Emily was in the middle of putting off her statistics homework when she heard the TARDIS’ familiar swooshing noise. It was, of course, only familiar because that was what she had programmed as the tone to go off whenever she received a new email on her phone. Emily glanced down at the thing, but it wasn’t lit up. She pulled out an earphone and realized that the noise was coming from outside the apartment. Emily lept up and ran into the living room, where her younger sister was already on her feet.

“Did you hear that?” Julia asked. “Do you think…?”

“Well. There’s one way to find out for sure.” Emily unlocked the front door and they hurried out, each fighting to get there first. Julia, of course, didn’t know about her sister’s misadventures in London, nor would she have believed any of it. But now she just might, because standing majestically in the center of their back patio was a blue police box. Julia started to let out a high pitched squeal but then slapped a hand over her mouth.

Emily smirked. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” inhaled Julia.

“Doctor.”

Julia squeaked. “Doctor who?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Correct.”

Emily made to knock on the TARDIS door just as it flung open in front of her. But she wasn’t standing face-to-face with the Doctor.

“Blaise!” Emily gasped, lunging forward to hug her internet friend. “What are you doing here? And why do you have the TARDIS still? Is the Doctor here?”

Blaise smiled guiltily. “He, um… He got held up doing important save-the-universe business. You know how it is.”

“And so you decided to take the TARDIS out for a joy ride?”

“...something like that.”

“Oh my God oh my God oh my God I knew it was real!” Julia breathed, teetering past the other girls and into the time machine policebox. It was just as wonderful as she’d always imagined it would be - bigger on the inside and all that jazz. What she didn’t expect to see was Scottie sitting on the steps inside and staring back at her blankly.

“Oh.” The boy blinked. “Hullo Julia.”

Julia tilted her head to the side before calling out rather loudly, “Emily, could you please come here and explain me a thing?”

Her older sister popped her head in through the doorway. “Mm? Yes?”

“What the actual fucking shit are your And Another Note buddies doing in our backyard in the goddamn TARDIS?”

“Geez, someone curses a lot for a twelve year old,” Scottie commented.

Julia narrowed her eyes. “I’m fifteen.”

“Eh. Close enough.”

“I’m still waiting for an explanation,” pressed Julia.

“Alright, confession time it is,” Emily began, stepping further into the TARDIS. “So. Um. Two years ago Scottie and I may or may not’ve been magically transported to BBC’s London in our sleep and moved in with Sherlock and John to help solve crimes and shit like that. Long story short we almost killed ourselves but were then rescued by Blaise, who showed up in the TARDIS randomly and she took us home and it was basically like no time had passed at all when we returned! Oh and Willow was there too, but we didn’t exactly see her for much of our adventure.”

A heavy silence hung in the air after Emily had finished summarizing the event to her younger sister. “Well?” the girl said after a while. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“This is the strangest dream I’ve had all week,” Julia finally wheezed.

“What? No! It’s not a dream. This… All this is real. I know it’s weird, like, acid trip weird, but that all really happened and whatnot. I mean, look at us - we’re standing around in the real motherfucking TARDIS, for God’s sake!”

Julia folded her arms. “And even supposing I did believe you, why have your internet friends shown up again now?”

Emily opened her mouth as if to say something, realized she didn’t know the answer, shut it again, and then whirled around at Blaise. “That’s a very good point. Why are you back here?”

“Well. Because season three of Sherlock aired, of course,” Blaise explained. “I just thought you might want to go back and relive the episodes. For old time’s sake.”

“But… I thought the Doctor had said that we could never go back?” Emily questioned. “That it would mess everything up again.”

“Well he couldn’t know that for sure. And aren’t you at least a little curious how Sherlock and John are faring without you?”

“I really do want to meet Mary,” Scottie begged, coming bounding over to Emily. “C’mon. You’ve missed this. Just the two of us against the world.”

“Did you just try to bribe me with a Sherlock season three quote?”

“...maybe?”

“Because it absolutely worked!” Emily threw her arms out around Scottie excitedly. “Oh, God, I’ve missed you so much! I mean, I know we talked pretty every day online, but it isn’t the same thing. All that stuff you said about wanting to stay in London forever - you were right! Being back is absolutely miserable in comparison. I feel like Frodo getting back from Mordor and realizing that the home he once that was a perfect little utopia was unbearably boring.”

“Same!” Scottie smiled. “Except that I’ve felt that way all along. But I’m glad we’re on the same page now.”

“Uh, but there’s just one little problem…” The two of them looked up to see that Blaise was pointing at Julia now. “Did you want this one coming with you?”

“No,” Scottie and Emily said at the same time.

Julia frowned. “Wow. Rude.”

“Sorry kid, I don’t make the rules,” Blaise told her.

“Can’t I at least wait here and meet the Doctor?”

“Nope, sorry! No kid sisters allowed,” Blaise said, ushering a complaining Julia out of the room. Despite the girl’s best efforts to dig her heels into the ground, Blaise managed to successfully get her outside of the spaceship and shut the door on her. They couldn’t hear was she was saying from the outside now, but Julia proceeded to bang furiously against the wooden doors.

“I actually feel a little sorry for her,” Scottie admitted. “Is it weird that she reminds me of us when we first left for our big adventure? We were about that age, right?

“She’ll get over it. Oh! And I’m going to have to pack my things,” Emily realized.

Blaise shook her head. “No need. Time machine, remember? I made a pit stop to right before you get in here at the end of Reichenbach and picked up all the things you had with you at that point in time. It’s over there, see?” Blaise pointed to the other end of the room, where a couple large duffel bags had been piled on top of one another.

“This certainly beats waking up in a sketchy hotel room,” Scottie muttered.

“And before I forgot, we’re going to need to get you both changed,” Blaise said, waving her hand and indicating the teens to start to follow her up the stairs. “This baby’s got quite the collection, especially if you need period pieces. I’d been in a lot of high school productions back in the day and trust me, the Doctor’s costume department takes the cake!”

“Costumes?” Emily repeated from several steps behind the other girl. “I’m sorry, but why are we changing our clothes?”

“Because you’re going to want to be dressed up for where we’re going.”

\---

The TARDIS materialized in a dark alleyway in London. More specifically, the BBC’s London. After making absolutely sure that Julia was fine to be left alone in the box, Scottie, Emily, and Blaise got out and stepped out onto the pavement. Across the street from them was the Landmark Hotel.

“You’ll find your friends at the main restaurant in there,” Blaise said, pointing.

“Are you coming too?” Scottie asked her.

“I s’pose so. Wouldn’t be very kind of me to drop you off and not double check that I hadn’t made a mistake in timing and location first.”

The trio crossed the street at the corner and made their way into the hotel and through its doors to the restaurant. Blaise had been right about making them change: everyone inside was very much dressed up, and now they, too, fit in. Scottie was in a dark suit, Blaise in an elegant and flowy purple blouse, and Emily in an almost skin-tight sparkly red dress that she had eagerly picked out, claiming it reminded her of Jessica Rabbit and that it was exactly the sort of thing she was going for for prom.

“May I help you?” a hostess came up and asked them.

“We’re actually meeting up with a group, but thanks,” Blaise told her.

“Aw yiss, this is my jam!” Scottie squealed, starting to shake his hips a little as Donde Estas, Yolanda played.

“You don’t even know half the Spanish for it,” scoffed Emily.

“You shut the fuck up. The season three soundtrack is great and you know it.”

“Look! There they are!” Emily squeaked. She elbowed Scottie and nodded towards a table a little ways away, where John and Mary were seated as Sherlock stood between them. “Oh. Maybe… Maybe we shouldn’t interrupt. They look like they’re having a serious conversation.”

Scottie made a face. “What are you talking about? Of course we should - they’re probably just as excited to see us and we are to see them! Remember how John cried when we were saying goodbye?”

“B-But if Sherlock just appeared after having faked his death for two years--”

“He didn’t,” Scottie promised her. “We stopped that from happening. Does any of this ring a bell? Now c’mon, I’m getting butterflies in my stomach just standing here!”

Unable to hold back her excited smile any longer, she joined Scottie in sprinting towards the characters. Sherlock turned his head towards them just in time to see them leap at him, knocking the detective off of his feet. All three of them came crashing to the ground.

“OH MY GOD!” John let out, scrambling out of his chair. “Wh-What’s going on here? Are they part of your homeless network? Sherlock?!”

“H-Help!” the man flailed an arm.

“Well. Surprise,” Blaise smiled, coming up beside John, now with a drink in her hand. “Are you happy to see us or what?”

“Do I know you?” the doctor spat back.

Blaise looked a little taken back. “I… Well, not officially. We met briefly outside the TARDIS. Don’t you remember? When the Doctor and I came to pick up Scottie and Emily?”

John squinted even harder. “Who?”

“...them?” Blaise pointed towards Scottie and Emily, who were still on top of Sherlock on the floor and laughing maniacally.

“Aw, geez,” John exhaled. “Mary?”

“Yes, of course!”

He and his long term girlfriend each took one of the kids and pulled them off of Sherlock. Emily then immediately latched onto John and Scottie hugged Mary, even though technically he hadn’t met her yet. Suddenly a couple of restaurant staff had come over and were asking the group to remove itself from the establishment.

“Wh… N-No, we don’t know these kids!” John tried to pry the girl off of himself. “Please. We have nothing to do with this. Don’t do this. C’mon.”

“I’m sorry, but you caused a disturbance and can’t have complaints about this sort of thing go ignored,” a waiter informed the man regrettably.

“How much do you want? I’ll pay,” John said, starting to dig through his wallet.

“Sir. I’m sorry, but you and your party has to go outside now.”

“It’s okay,” Mary said, putting a hand on his upper arm.

“No!” John pulled away. “No, it’s not okay! What about any of this is okay?! First… First him, and now--”

“SIR.”

The entirety of the group was promptly escorted outside. John was fuming, but Sherlock and Mary both looked equally confused at the whole scenario.

“This always happens!” John hissed. “You’re out of the picture for two years - two fucking years - and nothing. Absolutely nothing. Peace and quiet. But the very second you decide to swoop back in - pulling this sick stunt and dragging all of your… your crazy back with you!” The man came into Sherlock’s face accusingly. “Do you think that his is all some kind of big joke? That you can just come popping back in here like no big deal with a couple of--”

"I'mma let you finish," Emily interjected, putting her hand up, "but first I mustache you a question... John, Watson your face?"

Mary, Blaise, and Scottie simultaneously burst into uncontrollable laughter at this. Even Sherlock couldn't hold back a smile. Angrily, John clenched and unclenched his fists a couple times.

"I don't have time for this," he muttered unhappily. "Sherlock, Mary - once you're finished having your fun, might we finish this discussion elsewhere?"

"Oh. Oh, right, of course," Mary said.

"Where to now?" Scottie asked energetically.

John was already starting to head down the sidewalk at a much quicker pace than everyone else. Sherlock spun around, cutting the three youngest in the group off. "Uh. Perhaps it's best if you lot... didn't tag along. John and I have some catching up to do."

Scottie looked hurt. "So do we!"

"Listen, kid, we've never met, I haven't the slightest idea who you are, and I'm willing to bet that neither does John. That being said, I don't know what sort scheme you three are up to, but it's probably best that you go about your business and leave us out of it, understand?" With a final huff the detective whipped around again and followed after John and Mary.

“Wh--? B-But Sherlock!”

Scottie and Emily geared to bolt after the other characters as well but this time were interrupted by Blaise, who grabbed each of the almost-adults by the backs of their clothing and reigned them back in.

"Hey!" yelped Scottie. "I thought you were on our side!"

"Yeah, what the hell, Blaise?"

Blaise rolled her eyes. "Thank God I didn't just turn you two loose in London. Apparently you need all the supervision you can get."

"That doesn't explain why you won't let us go after them," Emily grumbled. "I mean, just because they don't remember us, it doesn't mean it didn't happen."

"I won't let you chase down the golden trio because right now Sherlock and John need to have a heart to heart slash duke it out, and I have the feeling our presence would disrupt that."

"What a waste of time then," Scottie complained as he folding his arms. "If we can't stay with them, then what? Back to the TARDIS and then home, just like that?"

Blaise shrugged guiltily. "Well. Unless you have enough British money on you to afford a motel..."

"Hey guys? I, uh... Hold tight. I think I have an idea."

"I always get worried when she says that," Scottie muttered to Blaise.

The two of them watched as Emily scurried over to the corner in opposite direction from where Sherlock, Mary, and John had gone. She waited there for a moment until the light changed and then speed walked across to the other side of the street. It was there that she went into a real telephone booth that wasn’t too far from where they’d parked the TARDIS. Scottie and Blaise exchanged confused looks and then darted after her.

By the time they caught up she was already ripping out a page from the phonebook chained into the booth.

"Um. Are you sure you're allowed to do that?" asked Scottie doubtfully.

"I didn't realize they still used these old things," Blaise said to herself. She swapped places with Emily as she exited the booth and flipped through the worn out yellow book with disinterest.

Emily folded the phonebook page into a little square and shoved it into a back pocket. "Don't know, don't care," she shrugged. "But that's what people always do in movies when they don't have anywhere to write down an address."

"You have an iPhone."

"...oh that's right."

Blaise stepped out of the booth and slowly closed the door behind her so that it wouldn't slam shut. "Where are you trying to go, anyway? And doesn't your Google Maps not work when you don't have access to wifi?"

"A map?" scoffed the younger girl. "I lived in London for two years, Blaise. I know this place like the back of my hand."

"She's directionally challenged and we should probably pick her up a tourist map as soon as possible," Scottie whispered knowingly.

\---

"You better be right about this," the boy grumbled once they'd reached the address Emily had spent the past hour trying to get them to.

He, Emily, and Blaise were standing at the doorstep to a residence they had never been to before. Blaise was the first to grab the knocker and hit it against the door a couple times. After waiting for a bit and exchanging awkward glances she prepared to repeat the action. Before she could, however, the front door was answered by a middle aged woman that nobody recognized.

"Mrs. Anderson?" Emily asked softly. 

“What? Oh, no, I’m… What can I help you kids with?"

"We're, uh... We're friends of, uh..."

"Philip," Scottie finished for her. "We've, um, worked with Mr. Anderson before and were wondering if he was around?"

The woman smiled and leaned her head back inside the house. "Philip!" she called out. "You've got company!" Beat. "Well I don't know, they say they're friends of yours. Why don't you ask them yourself?" And then back to Blaise, Scottie, and Emily: "Philip will be right with you, dears."

The woman scooted to the side and was replaced by Anderson. He had an almost comical beard now that made him hardly recognizable as the same Anderson they knew and disliked during their previous stay.

“Sorry, do I know you?” Anderson asked in a tone of voice that rather suggested he didn’t.

“Hello!” Emily started, holding out a hand to shake Anderson’s. “We were actually close friends of Sherlock’s before… Well, you know what happened.”

Anderson remained unconvinced. “He never mentioned you.”

“Well, ‘course he wouldn’t. Not to you anyway. Thing is, we heard you were having a little meetup to discuss, um… theories about how he did it, and we think we might have a few that you’d like.”

“Oh, right,” Anderson. “The Empty Hearse. We’re meetup tomorrow, actually, if you’d like to stop by then--”

“See, thing is, we just came into down and we don’t exactly have place to stay,” Emily went on.

“Oh. Um. I suppose I could, ah, point you in the direction of a good hotel? You’re certainly dressed appropriate for the Landmark. That’s not too far.”

“Just came from there,” Blaise chimed in. “Funny story, we had a dinner reservation, hence the outfits, but then our cards got canceled and we’re in a bit of a jam.”

“Oh.” Anderson bit at his lower lip, finally catching on to what they wanted from him. “I don’t, uh… I don’t typically do that sort of thing.”

“Sherlock usually let us stay with him when we came in for visits,” Scottie tried.

“Well. Well, in that case, I suppose it would be the right thing to do…”

“Yes! Exactly! Oh, thank you so much! You won’t regret this!”

Without waiting for a more firm decision, the three of them, already carrying their luggage, pushed past Anderson on their way indoors as the man hovered in the doorway with a face already full of regret.

\---

“This isn’t how I thought it would be,” Emily pouted, clinging tightly a corner of her blanket and staring up and the dark ceiling. “Two years. That’s how long I spent fantasizing about the day we came back here, and how happy Sherlock and John and everyone else would be to see us again…”

Scottie exhaled. “Well. You know what I always say. The secret to not being let down is very, very low expectations always.”

“What’s going on, anyway? How could they all just… forget us like that?”

“The world must’ve reset,” Blaise guessed. She had called dibs on the couch and was lying a good foot or so above of Scottie and Emily, who were sharing the same large blanket on the extremely uncomfortable wooden floor below her.

“Reset?” Emily lifted her head slightly.

Blaise rolled over onto her stomach. “Well think about it. It makes sense. The Doctor brought you back to fix this universe. Maybe… taking you two out of it undid everything that happened before; put things back to the way the episode was really supposed to go.”

“Without us ever meeting them,” Scottie finished for her.

“Exactly.”

“Well good fucking job trying to put us back into a world we clearly don’t belong in any more!” Emily wailed.

“How the hell was I supposed to know!” Blaise shot back defensively. “I was just trying to do you guys a favor. You both seemed so… depressed whenever we talked online. I got to thinking that maybe you really were better off here, and especially by season three, now that you wouldn’t be in danger anymore…”

“Can’t you just drop us off in the right alternate universe then?”

“I don’t know how you’d expect me to find it, supposing it even still exists.”

“Well I’m not going home again!” Scottie announced as he sat upright, pulling the blanket halfway off of Emily in the process, which irritated her a great deal. “I say we give it some time,” Scottie went on. “Try to make them remember, and if they can’t, then we’ll just start over again from scratch. I mean, it worked once, right? And to be quite honest we didn’t exactly make the best impression the first time around, either.”

There was a collective and thoughtful silence that followed this statement before Emily yanked the blanket entirely off of Scottie and proceeded to roll herself into a burrito with it.

\---

“His movements were so silent,” Mary read aloud from John’s blog, which she had pulled up on her iPad. “So furtive, he reminded me of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent…”

“You what?” John asked from a little ways away.

“I couldn’t help thinking what an amazing criminal he’d make if he turned his talents against the law.”

John was standing in the middle of the doorframe to the bathroom now, frowning back at Mary, who sat on their bed. The lower half of his face was covered in shaving cream. “Don’t read that,” he told her.

“The famous blog, finally!”

“Come on, that’s…”

“Ancient history, yes, I know,” Mary answered. “But it’s not, though, is it? Because he’s…” John’s girlfriend looked up for the first time at John with a mischievous grin. “What are you doing?”

“Having a wash,” John sat flatly.

“You’re shaving it off.”

“Well. You hate it.”

“Sherlock hates it.”

“Apparently everyone hates it.”

Mary let out a childish giggle. “Are you gonna see him again.”

“No,” pressed John, starting to sound vaguely annoyed. “I’m going to work.”

“Oh. And after work, are you gonna see him again?” Without answering her, John rolled his eyes and turned back into the bathroom. Mary apparently couldn’t stop smiling. “Cor, I dunno, six months of bristly kisses for me, and then His Nibs turns up…”

“I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes,” John hissed from the other room.

“Oh! You should put that on a T-shirt!”

“Shut up.”

“Or what?” Mary mused.

John stopped and turned to face her with a slight smile. “Or I’ll marry you.” There was a buzzing noise signifying someone at the front door then, and John and Mary glanced up. “Could you…?”

“On it.”

Mary got up and went into the other room. When she opened the door she found herself standing across from a boy she recognized from the night before. Scottie shuffled awkwardly on the front porch for a moment before saying, “So. I realized we never really formally introduced ourselves. I’m Scottie Lewis.”

The boy held out a hand to Mary, which she took. “Mary Morstan.”

“Is John here?”

“He’s a little busy at the moment. I can tell him you dropped by?”

“I’d actually… quite like to talk with him, if that’s alright.”

Mary hesitated for a moment before leaning around a corner inside and calling out “John! There’s, a… friend here to see you.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” came the doctor’s muffled reply.

Mary turned back to Scottie. “So, um. Are you a student, or something like that?”

“Something like that,” Scottie pursed his lips together.

“And you know John from…?”

“It’s complicated. Like. Really complicated.”

“Mm. I bet.”

John eventually stumbled in behind Mary, still wearing a bathrobe and now entirely cleanshaven. “Who gave you this address?” he demanded upon recognizing Scottie from the hotel restaurant.

“Uhhh… don’t worry about it,” Scottie breathed. “Look, I came because I wanted to apologize for last night. I hadn’t realized that you would completely forget about us like that, so in retrospect, I understand that the whole experience was probably a little overwhelming, especially on top of finding out that Sherlock’s been alive this whole time or whatever. That being said, out of fairness to you and because of how horribly wrong things went when Emily and I kept things to ourselves the first time around, I’m just gonna tell it like it is.” Scottie took a deep breath before continuing: “Once upon a time a couple of kids fell asleep after rewatching their favorite TV show from opposite ends of the U.S. and woke up here in London. It was there that they met Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, a couple of men who had practically just been introduced to each other, and by some miraculous stroke of luck all four of them moved in under the same roof and - and - wait don’t you want to hear how it ends!” Scottie called after John, who had already grown bored and started back inside, shutting the door behind himself.

Frowning, Scottie stuck a foot in the doorway just in time to stop the door from closing completely and kicked it back open again with the same leg. Mary opened her mouth slightly, as if she wanted to say something but wasn’t quite sure where even to start.

“Okay wait at least let me prove it!” Scottie shouted and took a step inside.

Mary came forward now, trying to usher Scottie back out on John’s behalf. “I don’t think this is a good--”

“BOOM.” The boy ripped down the zipper of his jacket and pulled it aside, puffing out his chest to reveal the sentence I DON’T SHAVE FOR SHERLOCK HOLMES was scrawled across his white T-shirt with a sharpie.

Mary cupped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my. How did you…? J-John, come have a look at this!”

“What!” John let out, circling back around. He stopped in his tracks again and read Scottie’s shirt. Then the doctor began to fume. “YOU’VE BEEN SPYING ON US?”

Scottie blinked and took a step back. “W-What? No! No, of course not! And there’s no way I could’ve done it that fast if I were! It’s like I was trying to say before, I made that this morning because I already knew you were going to say it because where I come from this is a TV show and--”

But before he could even finish his sentence, Scottie was shoved out the rest of the way and the door slammed shut just inches away from his nose so suddenly that for several seconds the boy wasn’t entirely sure whether it had actually hit him or not.

“Oh man we are so fucked,” he sighed. Scottie turned around to leave to porch, shoulders hung.

\---

“...I was terrified, obviously, but we both knew what had to be done, and somehow, having Scottie there with me made it all seem… well, not easier, but it certainly helped. Anyway, so there we were, standing atop Saint Bart’s and squeezing onto each other’s hand. Scottie hangs up the phone and he looks at me and I ask, ‘So are we really doing this?’ And then he nods, ever so slowly, and I shit you not, there was this look in his eyes like--”

“WHAT?!” Anderson let out, fists practically shaking with anger that had gradually built up since the beginning of her story. “Are you out of your mind!”

Emily scoffed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Look, if you’re not going to take it seriously, Emily--”

“I’m sorry but were you there?”

“No! No, I wasn’t, and neither were you! Your version doesn’t make any sense. You and your friend couldn’t possibly have known Sherlock during that time. I think someone would’ve remembered a couple of kids running around with him on cases.”

“You bring up a valid point and it is currently something we’re looking into,” Blaise commented.

Anderson narrowed his eyes at the other girl. “You stay out of this.”

“Now hang on,” another person in the room said. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor and wearing a deerstalker. “I know it’s not a valid theory, or even a theory at all, really, but I still think it’s a rather fascinating concept and would quite like to hear the end of it.”

“Yeah, at least let her finish!” another stranger agreed.

Anderson threw his hands down at his sides, a bewildered look about him. “I don’t believe you people. I founded The Empty Hearse so like-minded people could meet, discuss theories…”

“Oh why bother?” sighed Emily. “Fan fiction’s all most of them are anyway.”

“Did you jump, though? Like Sherlock would’ve?” the man in the deerstalker pressed interestedly. “Off of Saint Bart’s. In the story, I mean.”

Emily pursed her lips and looked down at the floor. “Sadly, yes…” There was a collective gasp from several of the members of The Empty Hearse. A sly smile spread across Emily’s face and she lifted her head again victoriously. “But we LIVED! See, what we hadn’t counted on was--”

“OKAY THAT’S QUITE ENOUGH OF THAT!” Anderson yelled, making Emily jump a little in her seat. “Sherlock’s still out there. I’m convinced of it.”

“Oh my God,” another girl let out, her eyes widening at the TV screen that was on behind Anderson “Oh my God.”

Anderson turned to look now, and the rest of the room, too, noticed the rolling headline: HAT DETECTIVE ALIVE. The thing was muted. Fractions of a second later the room erupted into text alerts. Nearly every individual scrambled to pull their phones out from their jacket pockets. The girl who had pointed out the TV to Anderson held up own cell phone up to the man’s face with the sort of look you only ever see on a true fangirl. “Oh. My. GOD!”

“Oh yeah we could’ve told you that,” Blaise shrugged. “Just saw into the man last night, actually. Pretty spry for a corpse, by any standards.”

“Wait doesn’t anybody want to hear how we survived?” Emily asked, dismayed at having lost the attention span of the meeting.

Starting to get annoyed by the excitement in the room, Emily and Blaise migrated into the house’s foyer.

“Hey, Blaise… I just wanted to say that I appreciate everything you’re doing to try and help me and Scottie,” Emily said as soon as they were in a space where they could hear themselves think again. “Sticking around like this, I mean. You know, you’re not obligated to, if you’ve other places to be. I don’t want to hold you back or anything.”

Blaise frowned. “Wow. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to get rid of my company.”

“T-That’s not what I meant! All I’m saying is, you don’t owe us any favors. If anything it’s the other way around, so… I like you being here. I just want to make sure it’s on your own terms.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. And don’t worry,” Blaise shrugged, “I like an excuse to spend time with you and Scottie in a debatably fictional world. Plus, the TARDIS is just fine where it’s parked. The doors are locked and anyone who thinks twice about it will just assume it’s a tourist attraction. We are in London, after all. And… And if we can’t get you both settled back in I want you to have a way back,” the girl admitted.

Emily’s eyes grew wide with worry. “Oh, geez, I hope it doesn’t get to that point!”

“Me neither. But at the rate things are going…”

There was a knock at the door then, and because Anderson was clearly too distracted with the rest of his fanclub and the good news, Blaise answered it.

“I have returned,” Scottie announced, stepping into the foyer. Blaise shut the door behind him.

“And?” Emily asked eagerly. “How did things go at the Watson household?”

“Not so good,” the boy told her. “John thinks I’m creepy and never wants to see us again.” Emily looked crestfallen by this news. “Well. I mean, those weren’t the man’s exact words, but it was sort of implied.”

“W-Well you shouldn’t give up just yet!” Blaise tried. “So you didn’t get anywhere with John. That just means it’s time to try with Sherlock.”

“Newsflash: he doesn’t want us around either,” Scottie grumbled.

“Then get him to come to you.”

Emily raised an eyebrow at this. “How?”

 

“Jesus Christ, you lived with the guy for two years and you really don’t have any ideas? Pretend to solve a case before him! Sherlock can’t stand having his intelligence questioned. If he gets to thinking you guys know more than him, he’ll hardly be able to keep himself away.”

“I don’t know…” Emily exhaled. “Last time Scottie and I tried to prove we were competent by solving a case before them it ended in John yelling at me for stretching out his sweater the wrong way.”

\---

Not entirely to anyone’s surprise, the trio wasn't welcomed to stay another night at Anderson’s and had since moved their stuff back into the TARDIS for the time being. Over the course of the remainder of the day they came up with a battle plan, which was put into motion that night. Knowing in advance about John’s abduction, Scottie, Blaise, and Emily had arrived on scene in front of a church for Guy Fawkes Night just before the start of the event.

“I don’t like this,” Scottie kept saying. “We know he’s in there and yet we’re not doing anything to help get him out.”

“Patience young padawan,” Blaise breathed. “We know Magnussen is watching. If we help him now the texts to Sherlock and Mary will stop, because there no longer will be a threat. We need to do the thing just before they get here.”

“Which will still be before the bonfire is lit,” Emily added quickly.

Scottie narrowed his eyes. “Okay but I’m still allowed to not like it.”

A mischievous grin spread across Emily’s face as she took out her phone and starting texting with it. Scottie made a face and leaned over the girl’s shoulder.

“Um. Who are you texting…?”

“Mary.”

“...why.”

“How did you even get her number?” Blaise asked, looking a little surprised if not impressed.

Before hitting send, Emily showed the screen to both of them, which she had put a couple lines of song lyrics into: Come on baby light my fire. Come on baby light my fire. Try to set the night on fire.

“Oh my God,” Scottie exclaimed. “You’re actually the devil. Did you know that?”

“Just having a bit of fun,” the girl mused.

“Wait no don’t send it out! I have an improvement. May I?” Blaise held out a hand to Emily, who cautiously gave her the phone. Blaise then proceeded to change the message to Come on baby light my John. Come on baby light my John. Try to set the John on fire.

Emily gave Scottie a sidelong glance. “And you say I’m the devil?”

“You both are horrible people.”

“Here I’ve got another one.” Emily took her phone back and sent the current message. She began typing a second message, this time reading And I set fiiiiiire to the Johnnnnn, which she waited several seconds longer before sending out as well.

“MY TURN!” Blaise excitedly took the phone again and put in John is the light. Light of the world. Light up the night. When will he learn. Now is his time. Now is his turn. To burn baby burn baby.

Blaise hit send and Emily held up a hand to stifle a laugh. “Oh my God we really are going to hell.”

“Okay, give me that,” Scottie said, and swiped the phone. It took him a minute to figure out the typing mechanism, but his message was very short: THIS JOHN IS ON FIIIIIIRE!

Emily cackled unattractively. All of a sudden, Blaise elbowed Emily in her side. “Uh, guys… I think we’ve gotten more than a little sidetracked.”

The two teens looked up to see a man approaching the bonfire and preparing to light it. Letting out a yelp, all three of them rushed forward, pushing past several people crowded around in front of them to get to the backside of the unlit bonfire they’d been circling. A couple people saw this and started to try and pull them back.

“There’s someone in there!” Blaise hissed, pulling away from one of the strangers and starting to rip apart at the bonfire.

In a matter of seconds they had gotten it open enough to reveal John, and it took all three of their combined strengths to pull the man out again just as the bonfire was lit from the opposite side. Several people looked on in various states of confusion and worry. Emily and Blaise knelt down on opposite sides of John, who was very clearly still feeling the effects of what he had been drugged with and looked in no state to get up just yet.

“I’ll go and wait for Sherlock to point him in the right direction,” Scottie said and skirted around the bonfire. The boy returned a minute or so later with the detective and Mary, who also dropped to their knees in front of John.

“Oh my God,” Mary kept saying.

“Oh yeah, we pulled him out for you,” Emily told Sherlock. “Yes, remember us? Who you told piss off last night? Well, you’re welcome. Your best friend is now not dead because of us. So. About that thank you and perhaps an apology...”

But the man clearly wasn’t listening, because he practically shoved her out of the way to get a better look at John. Emily stood up and dusted herself off. She was joined shortly by Scottie and Blaise.

"Well that was a bust," Scottie sighed. "I told you we should've tried showing up to his and Molly's walk-in case thing with job applications."

Blaise rolled her eyes. "Do you really think Sherlock would hire a couple assistants after that first impression you made at the restaurant?"

"Well no, but I mean, we didn't exactly think they'd let us move in with them just like that the first time around..."

“H-Hey! Hang on!” Emily said, coming back up to Sherlock’s side as he and Mary were busy helping John to his feet again. “Look, I know you’re a little preoccupied at the moment, but Scottie, Blaise and I came an awful long way to meet with you, and I think we have some valuable information about what’s going on.”

“And I think it’s best if you scurried along,” Sherlock retorted.

“We know about the terrorism threat!” the girl huffed. “And who’s behind this most recent incident with John, but that’s unrelated.” The detective stopped now and for the first time turned his head to meet Emily’s eyes. She swallowed and held her arms out to her sides. “Go on. Deduce me. See if I’m lying about any of this. So c’mon - what are you waiting for? Deduce me, you whore!” Mary let out a gasp and threw a hand over her mouth. Sherlock didn’t say anything, and so Emily went on: “See, you can’t, can you? You don’t know what to make of me.”

Everyone else in the vicinity seemed to hold their breaths. The Guy Fawkes bonfire continued to roar on behind the group, lighting their faces with a warm, orangey glow. Emily started to regret having said anything, because Sherlock had handed off his half of John’s weight to Mary now and came towards her, eyes narrowed, almost challengingly.

“I know that you’re an adult, but only just,” he started, his voice deep and full of contempt. “You attend secondary school in the United States, where you live in a large city, probably, on the west coast, so Los Angeles or someplace relatively nearby. You own a… sorry, two cats, and are an older sibling. You live with only one parent after the divorce, which was probably when you were very little. You participate in a team sport, one similar to cheerleading or gymnastics but perhaps less conventional, and it has banged up your hands quite a bit over the course of several years, which is not good news because you’re also an artist. You like to draw and play the violin in a school orchestra. You’re left-handed, your feet turn in slightly when you walk but not enough for most people to take note of...” Sherlock paused momentarily to suck in another breath of air. “Need I go on, or have I already convinced you that I do, in fact, very much know what to make of you?”

“You’ve only just scratched the surface,” Emily answered stiffly.

Sherlock seemed almost amused by her answer. “Not good enough? Alright, then let’s take it up a notch, shall we?”

“Sherlock,” Mary warned.

“You have more insecurities than you’ve got fingers to count - fears about not making up your mind when it’s most crucial, fears of never being taken seriously, fears of sudden change and getting let down by people time and time again. And all of these things you’re afraid of will continue to happen because you’re too weak to change your attitude about them or grow the hell up and get over it. Appearance-wise, you don’t like your nose. You think your breasts are too small. People probably tell you that bruise on your lip isn’t even noticeable until after you’ve already pointed it out, but a part of you suspects that this isn’t true and they’re just being polite - which they are. You use cover-up to mask your acne; not much is needed, but still you do it every morning because you’re afraid of people seeing it and judging you. Thinking that you’re ugly. Or dirty. You pretend not to be, but are in fact very concerned with what people think of you, which is why you’re looking so upset now. Because you’re quite obviously a fan and deep down you wanted more than anything for me to like you, and this being the case, I’m afraid I have rather disappointing news.”

Sherlock was standing just inches away from Emily now and looming over her as her eyes started to water, and now even Scottie was becoming angry. He came forward and pushed in front of Emily defensively. “Hey, how about you quit trying to use your little talent to scare her off, alright?” he spat. “You aren’t the only special snowflake in this world.”

“Oh? And pray tell, what can you do?” Sherlock took a couple steps back and seemed to stand even taller now, his chin jutted out. As if he were daring Scottie to turn the tables and deduce him, only to throw it back in his face when he obviously couldn’t.

“Oh, just about the same thing, only the psychosocial edition,” Scottie snapped in return. “Where should I begin? How about with ‘caring is not an advantage’? Is that what itty-bitty Mycroft told you when you dared to have icky feelings in front of him? Or did that start with your parents, when your dog died and you had the experience of missing someone for the first time?”

Initially prepared to scoff and reply with his usual snark, Sherlock paused. His face was unreadable, but Scottie was emboldened by the detective’s seemingly piqued interest and continued.

“Is that the line you served yourself when none of the other kids wanted to play with you because you were too smart or socially inept or whatever? Because it’s true, y’know.” Scottie narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “You do have the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, but still you wanted to be a pirate... and ended up as a consulting detective. Was it the excitement and adventure you were attracted to? Or was it the solitude disguised as independence and the fear disguised as respect?” Sherlock made no attempt to answer, though Scottie wasn’t expecting him to. “Y’know, most people are idiots compared to you. There’s no reason for you to care about the opinions of us peasants, especially if your exaggerated arrogance is to be believed. And yet, that’s the frailty of genius, isn’t it? It needs an audience?”

“You can’t honestly--” Sherlock began, indignant.

“Because using your above-average intellect to solve complex shit comes naturally to you. It’s fucking easy,” Scottie hissed. “And the reactions of shock and awe that it causes are the only constant source of attention that you can rely on! Because the rest of you is perfectly ordinary, and with a grade-A shitlord of a brother, ordinary is boring! Because you are a lonely, naive man, so desperate to show off--just give him a puzzle and watch him dance!”

Mary was beginning to glance warily between Scottie and Sherlock, as if expecting the detective to suddenly lunge at the teen. However, Sherlock showed no evidence of being angry--or anything else. He stood motionless, his face stuck in a mask of polite surprise, while Scottie jabbed him in the chest with a finger.

“But let me tell you, Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” Scottie said, his voice dangerously low. “There is nothing boring about you. Or normal. Don’t insult yourself trying to pretend otherwise. You organize things by color rather than type, because you’re a visual thinker--so am I, and sixty percent of the general population. You fiddle with whatever you’re holding, and throw things into the air just to catch them, like a little kid. Origami calms you down and helps you focus. You love dancing, and being able to make your own mood music whenever you feel like it--all things you learned from watching how-to Youtube videos. You wear the same thing every day because once you’ve found something you like that works, you don’t think there’s any point in testing new options. You love spontaneity, but only if it fits nicely into your daily routine. You like dogs and looking at pretty flowers, and being in places that are way up high. You’re insecure about a lot of things and you want the approval of people you like, and you so badly want to be special just like every other human being in existence--”

“Stop it!” Sherlock interrupted, his face having finally broken into an odd mixture of anger, surprise, and maybe even fear. “How are you doing that?”

“How do you deduce people?” Scottie threw back.

“I observe.”

“And I remember.”

The boys both fell quiet for some time. “Oh no he didn’t,” Blaise said softly from a little ways behind them.

“What do you want?” Sherlock finally asked.

“We want to show you something,” Scottie told him. “And then you have to promise to hear us out.”

“Mary, can you…?”

“I can take care of him,” the woman told Sherlock. John was starting to look a little better at that point. He seemed to be standing for himself, anyway, but still appeared a bit dazed and confused and who knew how much he comprehended from everything else that was going on.

“Alright,” Sherlock sighed. “Where are we going?”

Mary and John went their separate way and Sherlock allowed himself to be escorted into a cab by Blaise. Scottie was about to get in when Emily held him back by a sleeve and muttered "Hey... I wanted to thank you. What you did back there was..." The girl trailed off, not entirely sure what word she was looking for. Nice? No; it was really more cruel than anything else. Badass, perhaps?

"Of course," the boy smiled back. "No one insults my boo and gets away with it. 'Sides, someone had to knock the guy off his high horse sooner or later, and what else was I supposed to do with the extensive hours I'd spent analyzing the man's each and every character trait?"

"Yo - what's the holdup?" Blaise asked loudly, doubling over to see the others from where she was seated past Sherlock in the vehicle.

Emily put a thankful hand over Scottie's shoulder for a moment before pulling open the door to the passenger seat and getting in. The cab then took the group back to the hotel where they'd first arrived, and they got out on the street corner.

"The Landmark," Sherlock muttered, recognizing where he was right away.

"Close but no cigar," Scottie told him. "Across the street from the Landmark." The boy then proceeded to lead the rest of them across a crosswalk to the opposite corner and then halfway down the that block and up to the alleyway where they had parked the TARDIS. Blaise went up and unlocked it, figuring out what Scottie was up to.

Sherlock stopped in front of the TARDIS and gave it a disinteres once-over. "What is it?" the detective finally asked.

"It's a police box," Emily told him.

Sherlock frowned. "Yes. I can see that, thank you. Why have you brought me here?"

"To observe," Scottie pressed.

Sherlock looked back at the boy for a moment before wrinkling his nose. The consulting detective took a deep breath and then came closer to the blue box. He stared at it for some time before slowly touching his fingers to it and pushing it open. Sherlock stopped again. Cautiously, he proceeded to step inside and let the door shut behind himself.

"I hope you're right about this," Emily turned to Scottie. "For all we know exposing him to time lord technology could break the poor man. So much of what he knows relies on science and physics working properly..."

Sherlock stumbled backwards out of the TARDIS again. The three of them waited in silence and watched as he skirted around the tight space between the box and the brick walls surrounding it, his hands pressed against the TARDIS. After he'd made a full 360 the detective popped his head in and out of the TARDIS a few more times. Next he stood in the door frame with his left arm gripping the TARDIS by its outer corner, his right presumably outstretched from the inside. Once he was finished Sherlock slowly shut the door again and turned to Scottie, Emily, and Blaise.

"You have my undivided attention," he said, whatever emotion he was feeling at that point in time still entirely hidden from his face.

"Not good enough," Blaise said.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "I'm sorry? I thought that was what you wanted."

"Scottie wanted your attention. Emily wants an apology for what you said at the bonfire."

"He doesn't need to apologize," Emily muttered half-heartedly.

"Shh. I want to hear it, then."

The man was quiet for several seconds. "Very well," he finally gave in. Sherlock turned to face Emily. "I misjudged you easier. I... was quick to take one look at you and assume the full story. Clearly my interpretation had a few holes it and I'm... sorry if anything is said offended you."

Emily couldn't help but blush a little at this. "C-Can I have a hug?"

"...I beg your pardon?"

"A hug. To prove it."

"I don't see what--" Sherlock started.

"Jesus Christ!" Scottie groaned. "You heard the lady, and I agree. I think a hug is in order."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "And... then then you'll tell me what the box really is?"

"Yes. But probably back at your flat, because we may or may not still need a place to crash. Indefinitely."

Reluctant at first, Sherlock came closer to Emily, as if he were still in the process of deciding if he really was going to go through with the gesture. Finally he did make up his mind and stiffly put his arms around her.

\---

“Oh, just look at all these wonderful little curls at the end!” Mrs. Holmes sang as she ran her elderly fingers through Emily’s hair. The girl was currently sitting perhaps too comfortably across the woman’s lap and had a satisfied look upon her face that was a little off-putting for at least one Sherlock Holmes. “Reminds me of a little boy I used to know,” Mrs. Holmes cooed and let her hand drop.

“Wait no don’t stop!” Emily let out.

“You’re like a fucking cat,” Scottie rolled his eyes from John’s armchair.

“I’m so glad you finally decided to get us some grandkids,” Mrs. Holmes went on.

Sherlock furrowed his brows at his mother. “I didn’t.”

“Wish you’d told us much sooner, though. Now they’re almost all grown up and we’ve missed all the fun bits!”

Emily turned her head. “I’m still fun.”

“As I’ve already said, I barely know them,” Sherlock seethed. “They certainly aren’t mine at any rate.”

“Now now, don’t be like that. There’s no shame in adoption.”

“There really isn’t,” Mr. Holmes agreed with his wife.

“Oh but just think of what wonderful news this is!” Mrs. Holmes squealed. “We can start bringing the whole family together for Christmas dinners again. Oh, I’m getting antsy just thinking about! You and Mikey helping out in the kitchen while the little ones run around outside…”

“See?” Blaise whispered to Scottie. “Slowly but surely everything’s falling back into place. Give it a few more weeks and it’ll be like you never left at all.”

The living room door opened then and John entered the flat.

“John!” Sherlock let out, more relieved to see the doctor than he had expected. He lept out of his chair and to his feet.

“Sorry,” John said quickly, “you’re busy.”

“Er, no no no, they were just leaving!” Sherlock hurried over to the couch and pulled Emily off of his mother, who he brought to her feet.

“Oh, were we?” Mrs. Holmes asked, eyes wide.

“Yes.”

“No, no, if you’ve got a case…” John tried.

“No, not a case, no no no!” insisted Sherlock. And then to Mrs. Holmes: “Go. Bye.”

“Yeah, well, we’re here ‘til Saturday, remember,” the woman reminded him.

“Yes, great, wonderful. Just get out.”

“Well, give us a ring. Maybe we could get brunch! Bring the kids with you!”

“Very nice, yes, good. Get out.” With one final shove Sherlock had managed to shepherd his parents out the door and tried to close it on them, but was stopped by Mrs. Holmes, who had stuck her foot in the way.

“I can’t tell you how glad we are, Sherlock,” she said much softer now. “All that time people thinking the worst of you. And now look at you - a father and everything! We’re just so pleased it’s all over.” Without answering Sherlock made another attempt to close the door, which also failed. “Ring up more often, won’t you?” Mrs. Holmes went on.

“Mm-hm.”

“She worries,” Mr. Holmes told him.

“Promise.”

Sherlock looked back at John and then came close to the crack of the door to utter “Promise.” Mrs. Holmes smiled at this and reached out to stroke his cheek. “Oh, for God…” Sherlock pulled away again and shut the door, this time completely. “Sorry about that,” he said, whirling around to face John.

“They’re still here?” John asked, pointing to Emily, who was now lying down on across the sofa, but clearly referring to all three of them.

“Oh. Right. New neighbors, apparently.”

“Apparently?”

“Yes.”

“And those two were… clients?”

“Just my parents,” Sherlock breathed.

John looked almost shocked by this news. “Your parents?” he parroted.

“In town for a few days.”

“Your parents?”

“Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of Les Mis,” Sherlock droned. “Tried to talk me into doing it.”

“I still think we all could’ve gone,” Blaise shrugged.

“Those were your parents?” John asked, still in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Well…” John chuckled a little and looked away. “This is not what I…”

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

“I-I mean they’re just… so… ordinary.”

“It’s a cross I have to bear,” Sherlock sighed. “Same with these three, apparently. Can’t seem to get rid of them for long.”

“Mm, yes. They are quite like a couple of bad pennies,” John agreed half-jokingly. “I probably should’ve warned you about that. They’re not staying here, are they?”

“Downstairs,” Scottie told him matter-of-factly. “221C. You know, you can just talk to us directly. We don’t bite.”

“Scottie, was it?”

“Yes.”

John shifted his glance over to the others. “And you…?”

“Emily,” Emily told him.

“Blaise,” Blaise said afterwards.

“Right,” John nodded. “Scottie, Emily, Blaise… I’ll try to remember that then.” He started to turn, stopped suddenly, and then looked back in their direction. “Hey. Thanks for pulling me out last night. If that’s what was going on.”

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, not bad.” John instinctively made his way over to his old armchair, stopped when he remembered Scottie was currently in it, and relocated to Sherlock’s chair instead. He was still a bit cut up around the sides of his face, but not nearly as much as he had been in the original episode. “Last night… Who did that? And why did they target me?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted, even though he wasn’t the one John was looking at.

“Didn’t they, though?” John asked with a nod towards the kids at the other end of the living room. “Last night they said something about… what happened. And the impending terrorist attack. That they weren’t connected.”

Sherlock glanced over at John from where he’d been standing in front of the mirror by the fireplace. “You remembered that?’

“Yes,” John said cautiously. “Is that… Is that why they’re still here? Because they have information you need?”

“It’s possible,” Sherlock said softly.

“But… But what would a handful of juveniles know about a terrorist attack?” John asked, looking back at Emily, who had now shifted in such a way that her head was hanging off the end of a sofa cushion and her feet her up in the air, pressed up against the photograph and map display Sherlock had put up.

“Probably about as much as you do?” Blaise shrugged from next to the sofa, her back leaning up against its arm closest to the window. “That the attack has… I don’t know, something to do with that one guy’s his little disappearing act in the subway?”

John made a face now and shifted his eyes over to Sherlock again. “Subway? Do you know what she’s talking about?”

“Yes. But I can’t see the pattern. It’s too nebulous,” Sherlock muttered. He came towards the wall behind the sofa now. “Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That’s what’s strange.”

“Give his life?” John repeated.

“According to Mycroft. There’s an… Excuse you.” He frowned down at Emily, whose legs were very much in his way.To solve this issue he took her ankles in each of his hands and pulled them away in opposite directions, which ultimately spread her legs apart.

“Oi!” Emily shrieked, kicking at him and rolling off of the couch and into the space between it and the coffee table, where she promptly got stuck. “Look at this fool,” she threw out indignantly to no one in particular. “I let him hug me once and now he can’t keep his hands off me.”

“There’s an underground network planning an attack on London - that’s all we know,” Sherlock continued, completely ignoring the girl. “These are my rats, John.”

“Rats?” the other man echoed from across the room.

“My markers: agents, low-lifes, people who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly rescinded. If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something’s up. Five of them behaving perfectly normally, but the sixth…”

John pointed to one of the pictures. “I know him, don’t I?”

“Lord Moran,” Sherlock told him. “Peer of the realm, Minister for Overseas Development. Pillar of the establishment.”

“Yes!”

“He’s been working for North Korea since 1996.”

John’s face fell. “What?”

“He’s the Big Rat. Rat Number One. And he’s just done something very suspicious indeed.” Instead of using his words to explain, Sherlock went to his laptop, which was sitting at the living room table. He opened it and began to pull up the footage concerning Moran disappearing off of the subway carriage. John came over now to have a look.

Seeing that they were all but ignored by this point, Scottie got up from his chair and went over to Blaise and Emily. “Hey, wanna do something fun tonight?” he asked, his voice low.

“Like get ice cream?” Emily suggested from the floor.

“Um. No. I meant like stop a terrorist attack.”

“Do you even know where we’d need to go to do that?” Blaise challenged.

“Um, duh! Who did you think you were talking to?”

“Fair enough. Emily makes a valid point though,” Blaise said, trying her hardest to keep a straight face. “I think we’re all overdue for a celebratory ice cream party.”

Scottie narrowed his eyes at her. “Did you both legitimately forget I’m lactose intolerant or are you deliberately trying to give me a hard time?” Rather than answering, Blaise and Emily exchanged looks. “Okay fine,” Scottie sighed. “We can stop for ice cream on the way.”

“Yes!” Blaise and Emily exclaimed simultaneously. And then Emily went on, “Okay but first someone is going to have to help me out of this position because my butt is currently wedged between the sofa and coffee table and I think that my legs are starting to fall asleep.”

\---

“Ah, look at that,” John said. And there it was: the single carriage, carrying a bomb and sitting just few dangerous feet in front of them.

“John.”

“Hm?”

John stopped and they both pointed their flashlights up to now see several explosive devices hung up along the sides of the vent.

“Demolition charges,” John muttered.

The two of them pressed on towards the carriage. Once they reached it, John went down into a squat to have a look underneath the carriage with his light. Sherlock pulled open the double doors dramatically and then he stopped abruptly in the middle of the entrance.

“Draw four, motherfucker! Also the color is now green because screw you that’s why, and while you’re busy with that, here’s a skip, skip, skip, draw two more and UNO!” Scottie slapped his second to last card down with a triumphant glow.

“I hate this stupid game,” Emily grumbled, her hand now taking up a good two-thirds of the deck. She was sitting cross-legged across from him towards the center of the carriage, separated by two stacks of Uno cards.

“Bull. You’re just a sore loser and you know it.”

John clenched his fists at his sides. “What the bloody hell is going on here?!” he finally exploded, causing Scottie and Emily to lift their heads and Sherlock to jump somewhat.

“Well it’s about damn time!” exclaimed Emily. The girl dropped her cards and folded her arms. “If I had to play another round of that I may’ve just personally restarted the damned counter!”

Scottie started to put the cards back into their box. “You think she’s kidding, but she actually already tried to do so twice in the last hour. Apparently losing card games gives rise to her inner terrorist. Kira,” he added as a side comment. Emily stuck out her tongue.

Sherlock stepped fully into the carriage and looked almost impressed. “You kids defused the bomb already? Might I have a look?”

“Insulted as I am by your lack of faith, sure - see for yourself.” Emily then helped Scottie remove the floorplate they had been sitting on. Sherlock came closer and inspected the opened thing.

“Huh. Would you look at that.”

“This is all very suspicious,” John accused, stepping fully inside now. “How do we know they aren’t involved with planting the bomb in the first place? They were at the scene of the bonfire, too. Could be connected, for all we know.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “I think they just wanted our attention, wouldn’t you say? Solved the puzzle themselves, figured out that the bomb had a simple off switch, and then waited for us to come prancing in. They may be recklessly impulsive, but I’m convinced that their meddling isn’t a danger to anyone but themselves.”

“Well thank you for sticking up for us,” Scottie began, “but you’re still an ass for what you were about to do to John.”

"I'm an arse?"

John blinked, opened his mouth, shut it again, and then turned to Sherlock expectantly. “Sorry? What’s he going on about now?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the detective lied.

“Also Sherlock already phoned the bomb squad on your way over here. So don’t worry about that.”

“He what?” John snapped, his face growing red. Whatever he were about to say next was interrupted by the door opening behind him. But instead of being the bomb squad it turned out it was only Blaise, who was carrying a drink from Starbucks.

“Sorry; I ended up going to the wrong subway station. But can I safely assume we saved Parliament?”

\---

“But it’s crazy talk! Even if their claims were true, don’t you think we’d all remember it?” Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock merely shrugged at this. “Believe what you want, but there is something awfully familiar about it all, even if we don’t recall meeting them in the past. I personally have gotten nowhere trying to fit all the pieces together, so instead I’ll give Scottie, Emily, and Blaise the benefit of the doubt for the time being. Besides, they could yet prove useful to me.”

The other gentleman rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh. “I don’t suppose there’s any sense arguing with you once you’ve made your mind up about something. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed while you were away from Baker Street. I don’t know about this whole idea of taking in a couple of children, however. The old Sherlock Holmes would never consider such a thing.”

“Well, Mrs. Hudson seems to have taken quite the liking to them, anyway,” Sherlock shrugged. “I hate to think of how lonesome she was while I was a way. Could be good for her, having a couple of kids around to look after.”

“Mm. Right.”

John appeared in the hallway leading to Sherlock’s bedroom just then. “Come on,” the man pressed. “You’ll have to go down. They want the story.”

“In a minute.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past the other man, Lestrade following close behind him.

Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Scottie, Emily, and Blaise were all crowded around in the living room to 221B Baker Street. Everyone but Scottie had a champagne glass in their hand, although Emily had taken all of one sip of hers and made a face before deciding that she wasn’t going to have anymore; she just liked feeling sophisticated by keeping it with her. Sherlock came into the room then and popped open the cork of a new bottle, which he took to the coffee table to fill a new glass.

“Oh, I’m really pleased, Mary,” Mrs. Hudson was saying. “Have you set a date?”

“Er, well, we thought May,” Mary answered.

“Oh! Spring wedding!” the landlady let out cheerily.

“Yeah. Well, once we’ve actually got engaged.”

“Yeah,” John muttered.

Mary cast a knowing look in Sherlock’s direction. “We were interrupted last time.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock smiled at her.

“Well I can’t wait!” exclaimed Lestrade. The D.I. held up his glass in a toast as he said this.

“We’re invited too, right?” Emily asked eagerly.

John looked about ready to protest. “Well I don’t see why not,” Mary said, giving him a warning look. “The more the merrier.” Scottie discretely fist pumped the air at this news.

The front door opened then and Molly was there with Tom, her current boyfriend that the ensemble had yet to meet. And also who was dressed almost exactly in the likeness of one Sherlock Holmes.

“Hello, everyone,” Molly greeted them.

“Hey, Molly,” smiled John.

“Tom, this is everyone.”

“Hi,” the man said.

“Hi,” Lestrade echoed.

“It’s really nice to meet you all,” Tom went on. “Hi.”

“Wow. Yeah, hi. I’m John.” They shook hands awkwardly. “Good to meet you.”

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, leaving the window he’d previously been standing by.

“Ready,” answered John.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to give Tom a rather surprised once-over. Lestrade came up to the couple, offering, “Champagne?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock continued making his way between them and out of the room. The Detective Inspector handed a glasses to Molly and Tom, who both thanked him. Once out on the landing, Sherlock took another peek at the newcomer just before John joined him, shutting the door behind themselves.

“Sit down, love,” Mrs. Hudson offered.

“Oh, thanks.”

Lestrade cleared his throat a little. “So. Um. Is it serious, you two?”

“Yeah!” Molly smiled. “I’ve moved on!” She looked over at Scottie and Emily now, likely noticing them for the first time. “Oh! And I don’t believe we’ve met?”

Emily glanced over at Scottie, who merely shrugged. The girl then stood up and went over the woman to shake her hand. “Yes, hi. I’m Emily,” she told her.

Blaise came up behind her and had a turn. “And I’m Blaise,” she said. “The one who refused to get off the sofa is Scottie.”

“Molly,” the woman smiled back. “It’s a pleasure. Are you someone’s relatives, or…?”

“It’s um, kind of a long story,” Lestrade chuckled.

“Actually I think I’d better get going,” Blaise said. “I just remembered I had a… thing.” The girl quickly said goodbye to the rest of the room and dismissed herself.

“Wait!” Scottie called out. He and Emily proceeded to chase her out of the flat, catching up again on the landing. Scottie let the door close behind them. “Where are you off to?”

“Let’s face it, this is your thing,” Blaise sighed. “I mean. Yeah, I like Sherlock too, and it’s been a ton of fun, but… as counterintuitive as it sounds, you guys, this place, these characters… You all belong together. Sherlock isn’t just Sherlock anymore. You’ve made it your own thing. And I don’t want to get in the way of that.”

“You’re not getting in the way of anything, though!” Emily tried. “We all met online at around the same time. Just because Scottie and I have had a lot more time to bond over the years doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t be given the same chance.”

Blaise smiled and shook her head. “Nah. Like I said, this is your thing, and I’ve got my own. Namely, a Doctor that’s going to be very, very pissed off when I go pick him up.”

“Oh yeah,” realized Scottie. “You did kind of steal the TARDIS, didn’t you?”

“That I did.”

“Will you at least come and visit sometimes?” Emily asked hopefully.

“We’ll see. But just in case I get held up, don’t go throwing yourself off any more buildings, you hear?” Blaise gave them each a warning look, which Scottie and Emily avoided her eyes for. “Alright, alright, c’mere you dorks,” the girl laughed and held out her arms.

Smiling, Scottie and Emily both stepped forward to give her a hug. “Thanks for taking us home,” Emily said, letting go again.

“Solve a lot of cases for me.”

“We always do,” Scottie laughed.

With one final nod goodbye, Blaise went downstairs and just out of view. Scottie and Emily were only just about to turn back inside, however, when the girl came running back up the stairs to them again.

“Trapped?” Scottie asked with a raised eyebrow.

“There are so many people with cameras outside,” his friend wheezed.

“Aw well, I suppose another hour or so with us won’t kill you,” Emily chuckled, holding open the door to 221B.


	9. The Sign of Derp

Today had been the big day: John and Mary’s wedding. Now it was time for the reception. Sherlock was standing outside of the entrance to the venue with the newlyweds, Janine, and the other bridesmaids in order to greet guests upon their arrival from the church. Scottie had lost sight of Emily since leaving the wedding itself and was starting to get a little worried when she still wasn’t there less than twenty minutes until the start of the reception. He found himself pacing back and forth from several feet away in front of the building, fidgeting with his infernal tie all the while. Scottie hated getting dressed up like this.

“You’re not supposed to take it off,” a child’s voice said from just behind him. Scottie whirled around and looked down too see the ring bearer standing there. “I tried but they wouldn’t let me.”

“Yeah, adults suck like that,” Scottie told him.

The boy squinted. “Aren’t you an adult?”

“That depends who you ask.”

He stared up at Scottie in contemplative silence for some time and then held out a hand, which Scottie took. “I’m Archie.”

“Scottie.”

“Oh, Archie dear, we’re over here!” a woman called out, suddenly coming between the boys. “C’mon, the bride and groom are waiting for us.” She promptly ushered the kid away from Scottie without acknowledging him. Scottie frowned, offended somewhat. And then out of the corner of his eye he saw a taxi cab pull up.

The cab door opened and Emily stepped out of the back seat. She was wearing a long red dress that sparkled when the sunlight hit it and her hair had been curled. A second person emerged from the vehicle after her. He was tall and slender, with dark skin and currently wearing a black suit and burgundy tie to match Emily's attire. Scottie didn’t recognize the man at first glance, especially since he wasn’t wearing his glasses at the time, but ran forward to greet them both regardless.

“Oh, Scottie!” Emily grinned and embraced him in a hug. She put her hands over the boy’s shoulders then and stepped back, giving him a satisfied once-over. “Hm. I always knew you’d clean up nicely.”

“You know that’s not really a compliment, right?”

“Oh! Before I forget, this is--”

“The Bloody Guardsman?!” Scottie choked, suddenly realizing that he had seen the other man before. Well, in a manner of speaking.

“Stephen,” the gentleman corrected, offering out his hand to Scottie. “Stephen Bainbridge.”

But Scottie didn’t shake his hand. After a couple seconds Stephen lowered it again awkwardly. “Your date is the Bloody Guardsman?” he said in disbelief.

“Jealous?”

“Wh--no! Well. Maybe. But no! He’s, like, twice your age! Also the BLOODY FUCKING GUARDSMAN!”

Stephen gave a little wave. “Yes, hello, Stephen here. Stephen is my name. I prefer to be called Stephen.”

“He’s only 26, you know.”

“You said you wouldn’t go out with anyone we’d seen on the show,” Scottie whispered angrily.

“I agreed to no such thing.”

Stephen squinted at the both of them.

“Hey. Can I um. Can I talk to her for moment, please?” Scottie put a protective arm around Emily and looked at Stephen expectantly.

“Of course,” the other man blinked.

“Alone.”

“What? Oh. Right. Um. Yeah, I’ll… I’ll just be over here. Then.” Looking embarrassed, Stephen shuffled awkwardly out of earshot.

“Okay, look: you remember the little voice?” Scottie whispered. “The little voice in your head that tells you not to do stupid things? Just pretend you have one for a minute and listen to what it says about dating fictional characters.”

“...you go girl?” Emily guessed.

Scottie frowned. “No. We’re REAL PEOPLE inside a FICTIONAL UNIVERSE. Listen harder.”

“Um… dating is… off-limits?”

“BRAVO, YOU GOT THERE EVENTUALLY!” Scottie exclaimed sarcastically, patting the girl on her back. “Hey, I’ll meet up with you inside okay? Give you some time to break the news to your…” Scottie cleared his throat. “Um. Bloody Guardsman.” With that he gave a little nod and started to head in.

Emily took a deep breath and watched him go. Stephen came up from behind her. “Hey… is everything alright?” the man asked.

“Yeah, he’s just being weird,” the girl said, turning around. She touched the area just above his waistline lightly with her fingertips. “And how are you holding up?”

“Just fine,” Stephen smiled. “I’ve already told you once and I’ll tell you again: the doctors did a good job fixing me up, so stop worrying. Shall we?” He held an arm out to Emily, which she took and allowed him to lead her to the entrance, where they were greeted by the newlyweds and their entourage.

“Oh, Emily, I believe Scottie was looking for you,” Mary told her.

“Oh. Yeah, I just saw him, but thanks.”

“So is this him, then?” Mary asked, an obnoxious grin plastered on her face. “The plus one?”

“It is,” the girl confirmed. “Stephen, this is Mary, John, and Sherlock. Mary, Stephen. Sherlock and John, I believe you’ve technically already…?”

“Private Bainbridge!” John realized. “From… Wow. I didn’t realize you two were acquainted. This, uh… This is quite a surprise.”

“Is it really?” Sherlock asked, as if it were hardly a question.

“I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you, Dr. Watson,” Stephen started. “What you did, it was…”

John looked a little embarrassed. “Oh. Please.”

“No, really. If it hadn’t been for you--”

“Of course. It… It’s what I do. You’re welcome.”

“And congratulations, of course,” Stephen added. “To both of you.”

“Someone’s got a fan,” Sherlock whispered.

“Stop it.”

“Whelp we’re going inside now,” Emily interrupted with a little push into Stephen. “Toodles!” 

She then quickly escorted her date inside the venue, where after passing two sets of double doors they came into a sizeable well-lit and mostly yellow dining area. Although much of the space was taken up by rounded tables and seats, the vast majority of people were walking around and mingling with one another. Scottie was easy to pick out of the crowd, because he was sitting by himself at his assigned seat. Ordinarily Emily would go and hang out with him, but not wanting another lecture about why Stephen shouldn’t be there, she instead located Molly and Tom, who of the few faces that she recognized, hovering near the drinks table and went to introduce Stephen to them.

The four of them made their introductions, but then the other couple was quickly pulled into another conversation with a woman who Emily didn’t know. “Well they seemed nice enough,” Stephen commented as soon as their backs were turned.

“What? Oh, yeah. Molly’s great. I thought the yellow was rather appropriate.”

Stephen nodded thoughtfully. “Mm. Quite. Can’t say the same for some of the others, however.”

“Oh, yeah, like purple at 4 o’clock,” Emily snickered. “That they on her head - is that even legal?”

“I believe it’s called a hat.”

“Is it? Oh my. From here I could’ve sworn it was a giant fluorescent bird’s nest.” Emily started to make another comment, but by that point she took a step back into someone else. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” She whirled around to find that it was in fact Lestrade she had collided with. “Oh dear, I hope I didn’t make you spill your drink?”

“Only a little bit,” Lestrade half-smiled, switching his glass into his non-dominant hand to shake off drips of champagne from the other. “Who’s this?”

 

“Oh, this is Stephen,” Emily told the detective inspector, wrapping an arm around one of Stephen’s, which he pulled away to shake Lestrade’s hand. “He came with me.”

“Did he? And you, ah… You look, well, wonderful, as usual. I mean. That dress is just… Wow!”

Emily looked away, blushing. “Oh. Inspector. Stop it.” Lestrade laughed and now Emily looked back at him, suddenly dead serious. “No seriously. We don’t want a repeat of last time, do we?”

The man’s smile quickly faded. Stephen shot an incomprehensive look at Emily. “That didn’t happen like that,” Lestrade said sternly.

“I remember it differently,” Emily disagreed.

“Well you remember it wrong.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

\---

Just under a month prior, Emily and Scottie had been playing through a rather intense photo scavenger hunt that they had written up. Some things were easy - a picture of a grocery store employee giving a thumbs up, or a random couple kissing. Others were more specific and involved certain locations and even people. The goal of the game was to return to the flat at 6:00 sharp with as many digital photos as you could obtain in the time limit, all of which were awarded a different number of points based off of their difficulty to obtain.

Scottie’s strategy was to rack up as many lower-ranking photos as he could and then get to the harder ones was he was sure he had as many guaranteed points already to fall back on. Emily, however, was more ambitious and took it upon herself to start by breaking into Scotland Yard and taking duckface selfies with five different officers on duty.

The first four were simple enough. Apparently the mere mention of Sherlock’s name and a confident lie could get you past most doors, and once inside the police were more than willing to put their paperwork on hold to humor the girl. It was on the fifth, however, when Emily was spotted by none other than Greg Lestrade, who escorted the delinquent into his office.

“I can explain, Inspector!” Emily tried desperately as he shut the glass door behind himself.

“I certainly hope so,” the DI growled. He walked around his desk and had a seat. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

“The… front door?”

“Did Sherlock put you up to this?”

“...yes,” Emily said slowly and took a seat in a chair that was in front of Lestrade’s desk and facing him. “Yes. That’s… absolutely what happened yes. It’s all Sherlock’s fault and I am so very, very sorry for any inconvenience this may’ve caused.”

Lestrade squinted. “What were you doing anyway? You don’t honestly expect me to believe that he needed you to take pictures with my men for a case?”

Emily held her mouth open for a moment, searching for a lie. “Well,” she began easily. “Um. Not so much a case as… he wanted us out of the flat and said we weren’t allowed back until we’d taken pictures of all these things. See?” Emily pulled a folded piece of paper out from her back pocket and handed it to Lestrade, who opened it up and frowned.

“Scottie and Emily’s Epic Photo Scavenger Hunt Challenge,” he read. “And you’re saying Sherlock typed this up? Really? Just how dumb do you think I am, exactly?”

Emily shrugged and made a ‘I dunno’ noise with her throat.

Lestrade held the paper down again with a sigh. “Alright, tell you what: I’m going to ring Sherlock; if he really is the one behind all this… whatever you want to call it, he can be the one to pick you up and take you home. Otherwise I’m detaining you.”

“You can’t arrest me!” Emily gasped.

“Notice how that was not the word I used.”

“Well you can’t detain me either,” she protested. “I know my rights, and unless there’s a new law against taking selfies with police officers…”

He held out an expectant hand. “Let me see them.”

Emily blinked. “What?”

“The photos. Let me see.”

“...why.”

Lestrade sighed again. “Because if you’re just going to walk out of here I want to at least know who else I should have a word with about the little stunt you pulled back there. Is that alright with you?”

Although hesitant, Emily took out her phone and unlocked it for Lestrade. However, instead of scrolling through the pictures she had opened up for him, Lestrade simply tossed the cell phone into a drawer in his desk and shut it in. Emily gasped and leaned forward in her seat with a look of horror. “Wh-What the fuck was that?!” she choked.

“It’s evidence now,” Lestrade said matter-of-factly. “Maybe I can’t keep you in police custody, but that I certainly can.”

“Police custody my ass,” Emily fumed. “That’s outright theft!”

“Of course not,” purred Lestrade. “I have every intention of giving it back to Sherlock if and when he comes to collect it in person. It is important to a case, you said?”

Emily squinted at the man unhappily. He reached for the phone on his desk and she started to panic and pulled a wallet from her purse. “H-Hang on!” Emily tried. “Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement about all this in which Sherlock doesn’t have to know I was here?”

Lestrade looked back at the girl disapprovingly. “Emily. Please. If I took bribes I would’ve been out of a job a long time ago.”

“Not interested in money? Okay, then maybe…” Emily pursed her lips and looked nervously towards the door. Once she’d assured herself that no one was coming she hopped onto Lestrade’s desk, very much startling the older man. “One grab,” she instructed. “Ten seconds max, no squeezing.”

“WHAT?!” Lestrade pushed his chair back as he stood, looking almost furious now.

“You heard me. One boob grab in exchange for my phone. I won’t tell anyone.”

“You’re insane!” he choked.

Emily rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ. Alright, change of plans: you give me my phone back and then I won’t tell anyone that you touched my boob.”

“I’m not going to touch your boob,” he assured her.

“Are you sure about that?” Emily pressed.

“I am so sure.”

There was a brief pause in the debate, during which Emily reached forward and took Lestrade’s hand and threw it against her breast. “How about now?”

Unfortunately for Lestrade, before he had time to pull away from her the door swung open to reveal none other than Sally Donovan. “Inspector, I was wondering if you received a fax from… GREG! Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!” Lestrade shouted, jerking his hand back.

Emily hopped off the desk again and faced Donovan now. “It’s exactly what it looked like,” she insisted. “My friend dared me to come in here and get a picture with some of the officers, and then this man caught me and confiscated my phone and he said he wouldn’t give it back unless he… unless he could…”

Sergeant Donovan threw an incredulous look in Lestrade’s direction. “Well she’s obviously lying!” Lestrade argued, becoming flustered. “I would never do something like that! C’mon, Sally, you know me!”

“Yes, but I also saw you!” accused Donovan.

“Please, I just want my phone back,” Emily said softly, forcing herself to tear up as much as she could for the time being. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“Oh, God, give her her damned mobile, Greg!” Donovan demanded.

Lestrade grumbled something to himself and took her phone out from the drawer again, handing it back to its owner. “Sherlock doesn’t hear about this,” he threatened just before letting go of the device.

“Deal,” she whispered.

“Or John!” Lestrade added quickly, but this time Emily didn’t answer him.

Donovan propped open the door with a heel and ushered Emily out of the office, saying, “C’mon, sweetie, let’s get you out of here. I’ll deal with you later,” she muttered to Lestrade just before letting the door shut.

Letting out a defeated groan, Lestrade collapsed back into his chair.

\---

“Well, we’re just going to have to agree to disagree,” Lestrade concluded.

“It would seem so. I’d hate for a little… misunderstanding such as that to get in the way of our friendship,” Emily smirked. “Especially with us assigned to the same table and everything. That would certainly make things awkward, don’t you think?”

Lestrade swallowed. “Yes. Right. Of course. Well, uh... Oh, um, there’s Mrs. Hudson. I’ve, uh, been meaning to thank her for that book she lent me, so I’ll just... Yeah.” Lestrade awkwardly dismissed himself from the conversation.

“What was that all about?” Stephen asked as he watched the man go.

“Long story,” Emily shrugged innocently. “Don’t worry about it. Say - did you see where that waiter went who was walking around with the bacon-wrapped things?”

Meanwhile Scottie had been joined once again by Archie.

“Why are you sitting here alone?” he boy asked, pulling out the chair next to Scottie and climbing into it.

Scottie shrugged disinterestedly. “Because apparently my best friend is more of a social butterfly than I. Well - hawk might be a more appropriate word. She sort of has this way swooping into conversations regardless of whether people want her there or not.” He shifted his glance over to Archie, who was watching him intently. “So what’s your excuse?”

“Too many grown-ups, and my mum’s being annoying,” the kid sighed. “She keeps fussing with my hair.” When Scottie didn’t respond right away he went on, saying, “I like Sherlock, but he’s busy today.”

“Mm-hm,” Scottie nodded.

“Do you know him?”

“You could say that.”

“He never mentioned you.”

Scottie frowned. “To you? No. No, I don’t suppose he would.”

“How do you know him?” pressed Archie.

“Why do you ask so many questions?” Scottie threw back.

“Why do you keep dodging them?”

“I’m not--” Scottie cut his sentence short, getting another idea. “I’m a detective too, you know,” he told Archie, whose eyes lit up at this.

After about an hour of wandering from group to group Emily and Stephen did end up claiming their spots at the same table as Scottie, who they were slightly surprised to find mid-conversation with Archie.

“How lovely of you to join us,” Scottie said flatly without turning around. “I see the Bloody Guardsman is still here.”

Emily pulled out the chair next to Scottie and squeezed into it. “Yeah, see, I thought about what you said, at which point I then realized that I don’t give a shit and my love life is none of your business. Damn,” she quickly corrected upon realizing Archie was there. “I don’t give a damn. Sorry.”

“Is that your sister?” Archie asked interestedly, leaning over the table to see better.

“...sure,” Scottie grumbled.

“And who is he?”

“That would be Emily’s newest fuck buddy.”

“SCOTTIE!” Emily hissed, stomping on his foot from under the table for good measure. “Why do you insist on being insufferable?” She dropped her voice down to a whisper and leaned in so that now only Scottie could hear. "And it's not like that, okay? We haven't... I mean, I'm still... y'know."

"A traitor?" Scottie finished for her. “Yeah. I’m aware.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met officially,” Stephen cut them off, addressing Archie now. “I’m Stephen, and this is Emily.”

“Archie,” the kid told them. “What’s a… fuck buddy?”

Scottie snickered at this. Emily threw a harsh glare in his direction. “Good to know you’ve been making friends.”

Not all that long afterwards Archie had left to rejoin his family and the rest of the guests found their seats in time for food to start arriving on their plates. Joining the table with Scottie, Emily, and Stephen was Lestrade, Molly, Tom, and Mr. Hudson, all of whom they’d specifically requested to be by prior to the event. Conversation mainly centered around occupations from that point, which was quite boring to the teens up until questions started being hurled at them that they didn’t exactly have answers to, such as how they met John or their plans for the future.

All of three courses later the head waiter called in the attention of the room by tapping a spoon against an empty champagne glass. “Pray silence for the best man,” the waiter announced. Seeming to have completely forgotten he was still pissy about the whole Stephen thing by this point, Scottie let out an excited squeal in the back of his throat and elbowed Emily.

There was a ripple of applause from the guests as Sherlock got to his feet from the front of the room and buttoned his jacket. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Sherlock began, “family and friends… and… erm… others.” He paused, giving way to an uncomfortable silence. “Er… w… A-A-Also…”

“Oh God this is more painful than I remembered,” Scottie muttered.

Emily pursed her lips. “Scottie…”

“Mm?”

“You’re digging your nails into my knee.”

“...so I am.”

“Telegrams,” John said quietly.

“Right!” Sherlock exhaled. “Um.” The detective fished around his pockets for a moment before realizing that they were already out in front of himself. “First things first: telegrams.” He cleared his throat and picked the cards up. “Well, they’re not actually telegrams. We just call them telegrams. I don’t know why. Wedding tradition… because we don’t have enough of that already, apparently. To Mr. and Mrs. Watson,” he read now, “So sorry I’m unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck and best wishes, Mike Stamford.”

“Ah, Mike,” John said.

“To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big…” Sherlock stopped to make a face first. “Big squishy cuddles, from Stella and Ted.” Lestrade got quite a chuckle out of this. “Mary - lots of love…”

“Yeah?” pressed John.

“...poppet.”

Now Mary and John were giggling.

“Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from CAM. Wish your family could have seen this.”

Emily gasped now. Scottie glanced over at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Is something wrong?” Stephen whispered.

“Cam,” Emily tried to explain. “C-A-M, that’s--”

Scottie sighed. “Yeah. I know. I’m mostly wondering why you didn’t.”

“Um, special day…” Sherlock proceeded, dropping another card into the table. “Very special day. Love, love, love, love, lo… Bit of a theme; you get the gist. People are generally fond. John Watson.” Sherlock gestured to the man in question. “My friend, John Watson. John. When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused.”

For half a second Scottie and Emily expected to be taken into a flashback of the event. They weren’t, of course, and it was almost strange seeing the scene play out chronologically.

“I confess at first I didn’t realize he was asking me. When finally I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and… surprised. I explained to him that I’d never expected this request and I was a little daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was - for me - as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated. Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he’d placed in me and indicated that I was, in some ways close to being… moved by it.”

John made a confused sort of face from where he was seated beside Sherlock, as he very clearly did not remember any of this conversation taking place.

“It later transpired that I had said none of this out loud,” Sherlock confessed. John laughed and was joined in by a few others. Now Sherlock reached into his jacket, cleared his throat yet again, and withdrew a small stack of cue cards, which he flipped through quickly. “Done that, done that, done that bit, done that bit, done that bit… Hm.” The man looked up at the guests and then turned to John. “I’m afraid, John, I can’t congratulate you. All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.”

“Oh geez,” Stephen said under his breath. “And you’re actually close friends with this guy? Is he always like that?”

Emily shushed him.

“Today we honor the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time - one feels certain - our entire species.” Sherlock hesitated a moment before continuing. “But anyway… let’s talk about John.”

“Please,” John said quietly.

“If I burden myself with a little help-mate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice; it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me.”

Lestrade chuckled somewhat at this.

“Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides.” John let out an exasperated sigh. From beside him Mary looked less than pleased at the direction Sherlock’s speech was going in, but the detective went on as if he hadn’t noticed: “It is in fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is certain analogy there, I feel” - now it was the Janine and the other bridesmaids’ turns to look uncomfortable - “and contrast is, after all, God’s own plan to enhance beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot.”

By this point both Mary and John were hiding their faces behind their hands. “Well. There are probably nicer ways of putting it, but he isn’t necessarily wrong,” Scottie shrugged and took a sip from his glass.

Emily narrowed her eyes at him. “Hey. Why don’t you shut the fuck up, okay?”

“Guys,” Stephen warned.

“The point I’m trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet,” Sherlock spoke up again. “I am dismissive of the virtuous,” he said, looking towards a vicar in the crowd, “unaware of the beautiful,” he told Janine, and, finally to Mary and John again: “and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anyone’s best friend.”

Molly and Lestrade exchanged glances at this news. “Oh my precious baby!” Scottie fangirled, making another grab for Emily’s knee. “This is too much in person!”

“Oh my God will you stop!” she seethed, kicking him.

“Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have every had the good fortune of knowing,” Sherlock admitted. “John. I am a ridiculous man… redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I’m apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.”

A tense silence followed this last sentence as Sherlock let his smile fade into an almost grim expression. Scottie flexed his fingers a couple times, desperately wanting to keep holding onto Emily’s leg throughout this scene but fighting the urge.

“I swear to God I will cut that hand off with my butterknife,” she threatened, her voice low. Scottie squeaked a little and clung to the backside of his chair instead.

“Actually, now I can,” decided Sherlock. He looked to Mary, who was smiling along with John now. “Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss… So sorry again about that last one,” he added and leaned in. Sherlock straightened again, saying, “So know this: today you sit between the woman who you have made your wife and the man you have saved - in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let your down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

Scottie was distracted by a whimper, and he turned over his shoulder to see Mrs. Hudson had started to tear up. And although arguably the loudest, she wasn’t the only one; at their table Molly had started to sniffle, as well as several other guests spread out around the hall. Scottie turned his head to Emily and saw that now she, too, was blinking back tears. This amused him, and he rolled his eyes and lifted his head to Sherlock again.

“Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John...” But now Sherlock, too, noticed the crying guests and started to look concerned by it. “What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said tearfully.

“Did I do it wrong?” Sherlock asked the groom.

John stood up. “No, you didn’t. Come here.” The man pulled Sherlock into a hug, to which the audience began to applaud.

“I haven’t finished yet,” protested the best man.

“Yeah, I know. I know.”

“So, on to some funny stories…” Sherlock tried again almost immediately after John had let go of him.

“Can you… Can you wait ‘til I sit down?”

Looking embarrassed, Sherlock gave John time to take a seat again and the clapping gradually faded away. “So, on to some funny stories about John,” he tried for a third and hopefully final time. John smiled up at him. “If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would” - a few people laughed out loud - “be better. On we go. So, for funny stories…” The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. “One has to look no further than John’s blog,” he finished. John chuckled at this. “The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticise things a bit, but then, you know...” He threw a wink towards John and Mary as he said this. “He’s a romantic. We’ve tackled some strange cases: The Hollow Client, The Poison Giant… The strangest of these, perhaps, being The Mystery Twins.”

Sherlock stopped again, this time to cast a glance over to where Scottie and Emily were sitting, whose eyes had widened at his reference to them as they sunk further into their seats. “As I’m sure most of you have heard of by now, not all that long ago a couple of young individuals showed up quite literally out of nowhere with access to extensive knowledge pertaining to… well, certain things that came as a surprise even to me. Scottie and Emily have since stayed relatively close to me - all, well, three of us, in fact, and through little say of our own, mind you. Nearly drive us up the walls most days. I don’t know how John does it, honestly. For instance…”

\---

Scottie collapsed onto the couch beside Emily, who was steadily eating an entire box of Thin Mints from a case she’d purchased online a week before. They watched Sherlock alternate between mumbling to himself, doing his Mind Palace flail-dance, and fiddling with his laptop, all while John changed clothes and then made several cups of tea, offering Sherlock the occasional helpful comment as he passed.

“It feels so good, having the whole gang back together,” Scottie sighed happily. “Just like it used to be. Only, y’know, with ten times as much angst.”

“Mayday mayday, I feel a bad case of emotional musical number coming on,” Emily said through a mouthful of cookie. Scottie tried to play it cool as she put away her box of Thin Mints, brushed her hands off on her jeans, and fished out her phone--but by the time she pressed a button and a cheerful instrumental number started blasting from the device, he had an obnoxious grin on his face.

Emily put the phone on the coffee table and jumped to her feet, suddenly energetic. “Okay, can I just--say something silly?” she asked. This caught the attention of John, who was standing in the kitchen.

Scottie stood as well, still grinning. “Nothing’s stopped you before!”

Stepping over the table, the girl pirouetted into the middle of the living room and burst into song. “All my life was filled with platitudes and bad clichés... and then suddenly I am here with youuu!” She turned and slammed closed the sliding doors to the kitchen, right in John’s face. He grumpily cracked them open again so he could watch the two teens, wondering what they were up to now.

“I was thinking the same thing!” Scottie shouted, following after his friend. Soon he was singing as well. “‘Cause like, I’ve been searching my whole life for a less mundane day... and maybe it’s the crime scenes talking, or a home that’s brand new...”

Emily crooned, “Now with you...”

“Now with you,” Scottie echoed. “Here’s adventure!”

“I’ve true friendship!” Emily added.

They threw their arms around each other and began singing together, all while spinning excitedly in circles. “And it’s nothing like I’ve ever known befoooore! London’s an open door! London’s an open... doooor! London’s an open door--”

“With you,” Emily sang, touching Scottie’s face.

“With you,” Scottie agreed, touching her face in return.

“With you!”

“With you!”

“London’s an open door,” they sang together. At that point, Scottie grabbed a pillow off the couch, while Emily took the one on John’s chair, and they began chasing each other around battling with said pillows. Sherlock finally looked up from his computer to glare at the children and then at Emily’s phone, which was still playing the cheerful music. He and John locked eyes and silently asked each other what was going on. Sherlock shrugged, and John shook his head.

Scottie suddenly halted his pillowy attack upon Emily’s face and stood up straight. “I mean, it’s crazy,” he said.

“What?” John chimed in.

Emily nodded and said, “How we finish each other’s--”

“References?” Sherlock offered.

“That’s what I was gonna say!” Scottie exclaimed with a laugh.

Emily smiled and grabbed Scottie’s arm. “I’ve never met someone--”

“--who thinks so much like me,” Scottie sang with her. “Jinx!” they both shouted, and then, “Jinx again!”

The two children immediately snapped into stiff postures and started doing robot dances. “Our mental synchronization can have but one explanation!”

“You,” Scottie sang.

“And I!” Emily added.

“Were...”

“Just...”

“Meant to beeee!” the teens sang together. They locked arms and once more danced around the living room. “Say goodbyeee to the angst of the past! We don’t have to feel it anymoooore! London’s an open door! London’s an open... doooor! Life can be so much more!”

“With you,” Emily sang, throwing an arm around Scottie’s shoulders.

He put his arm around her as well. “With you!”

“Them too!” Emily dove onto John, giving him a bear hug.

Scottie quickly followed suit, clinging to Sherlock’s waist. “Them too!”

“London’s an open... dooooor,” they sang at the same time.

“Can I say something crazy?” Scottie asked. “Will you socialize with me?”

“Can I say something even crazier?” Emily responded. “Yes!”

The two teens hugged warmly as the music finally faded to a close. John glanced up at Sherlock and mouthed the words “what the fuck?” Sherlock gave him a look that said to just ignore them, and then he went back to messing around on his computer.

“Nailed it,” Scottie laughed, giving his friend a high five.

\---

An “awww” mixed in with a few giggles rippled throughout the reception. Scottie peaked out from over the edge of the table and gave a little wave to the rest of the room, embarrassed. Smiling all the while, Stephen rubbed a hand over Emily’s back and she glanced up, meeting his eyes. Scottie narrowed his own at this gesture, his overprotective BFF instincts kicking in.

“There’s something new practically every day. Never ceases to amaze and, quite frankly, terrify me,” Sherlock admitted. “But this isn’t about them, per say. No. We want something… very particular for this special day, don’t we?” Sherlock glanced down at his phone for a moment and then raised his head again towards his audience. “The Bloody Guardsman.”

And now it was Stephen’s turn to go pale.

\---

“Oh, we already have a ring bearer, but I don’t suppose you’d like to be the flower girl?” Mary offered.

“YES!” Emily let out excitedly.

“Isn’t that usually what little kids do?” Scottie raised an eyebrow.

Emily elbowed him. “You shush.”

Mary smiled, looking away to scribble something down on a notecard. “I also forgot to ask if you two will be needing plus ones for the wedding and reception?”

“Nope,” Scottie answered.

“Just the reception,” Emily said simultaneously.

Scottie made a face. “Why would you need a plus one? Blaise didn’t say she was coming back, did she?”

“No. She didn’t. If you must know, I’ll be arriving with a date,” Emily stated matter-of-factly.

“Oh good for you,” exclaimed Mary. “And that fills up this table…”

“Need to work on your half of the church, Mary,” Sherlock said, standing atop the couch. The wall in front of him was plastered with papers, complete with lists and labels and the like. “Looking a bit thin.”

Mary peered over the cardboard 3D model of the church sitting on the table in front of her. “Ah, orphan’s lot. Friends - that’s all I have. Lots of friends.”

Scottie still looked completely baffled at the previous news. “Now hold up, Emily! When did you have time to meet someone?”

“Schedule the organ music to begin at precisely 11:48,” Sherlock interrupted.

“But the rehearsal’s not for another two weeks. Just calm down.”

“Calm? I am calm. I’m extremely calm,” defended the less-than-calm Sherlock.

“Let’s get back to the reception. Come on.”

“I’ve been with you practically this entire time,” Scottie went on.

“You see but you do not observe,” Emily threw back teasingly.

“Could you pass the RSVPed invitations?” Sherlock asked, coming over to the table Mary was working at.

Emily looked up over her shoulder. “Who was that directed at?”

“The one who dropped a crisp on the floor earlier and ate it anyway.”

Scottie let out an exaggerated gasp and looked on at Emily in horror. “FIVE SECOND RULE,” the girl shouted defensively.

“YOU DISGUST ME.”

“SHERLOCK. WHY.”

“What?” the man asked uninterestedly, taking the stack of cards from Mary instead.

“YOU’RE TEARING THIS FAMILY APART.”

But Mary and Sherlock hardly seemed to be paying attention to their shenanigans.

“John’s cousin,” the woman said. “Top table?”

“Hm.” Sherlock turned the RSVP in his hands thoughtfully. “Hates you. Can’t even bear to think about you.”

“Seriously?” Mary looked up at him.

“Second class post, cheap card…” Sherlock sniffed at it and made a displeased face. “Bought at a petrol station. Look at the stamp - three attempts at licking. She’s obviously unconsciously retaining saliva.”

“Ah. Let’s stick her by the bogs!”

“Oh yes.”

“Hey, if you ever get married would I be your maid of honor or best man?” Emily asked Scottie suddenly.

The boy gave her a sort of funny look. “I really don’t think that’s something you need to be worrying about anytime soon.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged. “When I get married I’d probably find some kind of way to make you my… man of honor, or something.”

“I like how when we’re talking about you it’s ‘when’...”

“I didn’t mean that to be offensive,” Emily promised.

Scottie wrinkled his nose. “And yet...”

“My husband is three people,” John read aloud from his phone. “It’s interesting. Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin.”

“Identical triplets - one in half a million births,” Sherlock shot back rapidly. “Solved it without leaving the flat. Now, serviettes.” Sherlock pulled a tray holding two folded cloth napkins from the floor next to the coffee table and showed it to Mary. “Swan or Sydney Opera House?”

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Mary asked, sounding impressed.

“Many unexpected skills required in the field of criminal investigation--”

“Fibbing, Sherlock,” Mary interrupted.

“I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of--”

“I’m not John. I can tell when you’re fibbing.”

“He learned it on YouTube,” Scottie and Emily said at the same time.

“Some accomplices you make,” Sherlock muttered, shifting his eyes over to the both of them distrustingly.

“Opera House, please. Ooh, hang on, I’m buzzing…” Mary took out her cell phone and put it to an ear, beginning to stand. “Hello? Oh, hi, Beth!” John’s eyes lifted as his fiance started for the kitchen with her call. “Yeah, yeah, don’t see why not.”

“Actually, if that’s Beth, it’s probably for me too,” John said, getting to his feet. “Hang on.” The doctor then followed Mary into the other room as Sherlock plopped down onto the floor beside Scottie and Emily in front of the coffee table.

The consulting detective took out a stack of neatly folded napkins and set them down in the center of their triangular arrangement. “You heard the lady,” he said. “Sydney Opera House. Fold. Now.”

“Wh-Why now?” Scottie asked, looking flustered.

“We’re already in the middle of cataloguing flowers,” Emily protested with a gesture to the flower shop booklets that were laid out in front of her.

“Less talking more folding,” Sherlock mumbled, somehow having already just started on his third arrangement.

“I also don’t remember how to do it,” the girl went on.

“Oh for God’s sake…” Sherlock scooted closer and tilted at an angle so that Emily could better see what he was doing. “Look. It’s easy.”

Emily yawned. “The elephant ones were cuter.”

It was only a couple seconds longer before John was pushed back into the room.

“NO, THAT’S ALL WRONG!” Sherlock snapped, snatching the napkin away from Emily. “I told you, you have to hold it from this corner or else it’s going look all sad and deflated in the back!”

“Your face looks sad and deflated!” Emily shot back, taking the napkin again and promptly smacking Sherlock across the face with it. Scottie was sitting less than a foot away and snickered into his sleeve.

“Wh… Sherlock!” John let out, causing the other man to turn and look up at him.

“Did you see that?” Sherlock asked in disbelief. “She hit me with a serviette.”

“In which case you probably deserved it. But, um. Never mind that. Can I…” John glanced over his shoulder towards where Mary was still hiding out in the kitchen and faking her phone call. “Sherlock. Um. Mate. I-I’ve…” Sherlock stared back at John curiously as stood up again. They both came over towards the living room table and had a seat at it.

“I’ve smelled eighteen different perfumes,” John went on. “I’ve sampled… nine different slices of cake which all tasted identical. I like the bridesmaids in purple--”

“Lilac,” Sherlock cut in.

“...lilac. Um, there are no more decisions left to make. I don’t even understand the decisions that we have made. I’m faking opinions and it’s exhausting, so please, before she comes back…” John leaned forward then to show Sherlock his phone from across the table. “Pick something. Anything. Pick one.”

“Pick what?”

“A case. Your inbox is bursting. Just… get me out of here.”

“You want to go on a case?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward and his voice dropping so that Scottie and Emily had to be extra quiet now to still hear. “N-Now?”

“Please, Sherlock. For me.”

Sherlock took the phone now. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll get you out of this.” He scrolled through his website messages for a moment before letting one catch his eye and letting out and “oh”.

“Finally another case,” Scottie said half to himself. “God knows I need to get out of the house.”

“A phrase I never thought I’d hear coming from you,” Emily smirked.

“You know, screw this wedding stuff, why don’t we go out and solve a few cases ourselves? Just the ones Sherlock can’t be bothered to look into himself. Like the good old days. Remember that?”

Emily shrugged. “I remember we weren’t very good at it.”

“Shush. We helped that old couple find their runaway tortoise, didn’t we?”

“Well, it wasn’t going very fast. And then proceeded to slip out under their backyard fence again while we were still present.”

Scottie rubbed at the bottom of his chin thoughtfully. “Oh!” he let out, recalling something. “Okay, how about that one kid who hired us to find out is his parents were both having affairs, and then it turned out they had some weird hotel roleplay thing going on with each other?”

“Well it was kind of fun getting all Veronica Mars on theirs asses,” the girl admitted. “Alright, fine. I guess I’m down to be the John to your Sherlock in a little freelance work.”

“Yiss! Except after the Blood Guardsman though, because I kind of still want to be there when that goes down.”

As he was saying this Mary came back into the room and pretended to hang up the phone. Both men got to their feet hurriedly. “Er, we’re just going to…” John started. “I need, um, Sherlock to help me choose some, er, socks.”

“Ties,” Sherlock finished at the same time.

“Why don’t we go with socks?” Mary said, squinting between them.

“Yeah.”

“I mean, you’ve got to get the right ones.”

“Exactly! To go with my tie.”

“Outfit,” Sherlock once again overlapped with him.

Mary looked over to John. “That’ll take a while, right?”

“My coat in there?” John asked with a point towards the kitchen.

“Yes!”

John went to fetch his coat. “Just going to take him out for a bit,” Sherlock told Mary softly. “Run him.”

“We wanna come too!” Scottie announced as he jumped up from the floor.

“A-Actually, you go on ahead,” Emily told him with a wave of her hand. “There are a couple… girl things I wanted to discuss with Mary now that we’ve got the opportunity.”

Scottie looked puzzled. “But… But I thought you loved shopping for… socks?”

“Yes, and there will be plenty of other times for us to go… sock shopping together.”

Scottie’s face melted into a pout. He knelt down next to her again, saying, “Okay I think we’re on the same page but just to double check… You do know socks are a euphemism for the case, right?”

“Well typically in guard we’d use socks as a euphemism for pads for the sake of our male coach,” she informed him, “but yes, I realize it’s a case in this context.”

“The Bloody Guardsman, in fact. So… what’s the problem?”

“Maybe I just want to spend a little female bonding time with Mary. Is that alright with you?”

Scottie squinted suspiciously. “You’re being weird again.” Regardless, he got back to his feet.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John called from the kitchen doorway.

“Coming,” Scottie and Sherlock let out simultaneously on their way towards the front exit. Mary grinned and held a thumbs up out to both Sherlock and John, who couldn’t see each other and assumed the gesture was to them exclusively. Emily scrambled to document the moment with a panoramic photo on her phone.

Mary looked round at Emily after the boys vanished from the flat. “And then there were two.”

“It blurred a little,” Emily frowned at the image on her screen. “Oh, that was clever what you did, though,” she added, looking up. “So props.”

“Thanks. So what kept you behind?”

“Can’t a girl have her secrets?” Emily threw back playfully. “Now, where do you need me put to work next?”

Mary took a deep breath and scanned her eyes across the living room. “Actually,” she said, “I think we’ve done about as much as we can around here. Now that the men are out of the picture, how does a mani-pedi sound? My treat.”

Emily’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god yes. Why aren’t you my mom?”

“Alright, let’s… not get carried away there,” Mary laughed weakly.

\---

A taxicab dropped the boys off within a block from the barracks. The three of them made their way up at wide set of stairs to the entrance, where John pulled out his wallet and showed a military ID card to the man who looked in charge.

“We’re here to see Private Stephen Bainbridge,” John told the duty sergeant.

The man took a look a long look at the wallet and then handed it back to its owner. “He’s on duty now, sir, but I’ll certainly let him know when he’s free.”

“And when will that be?”

“Another hour.”

John nodded his thanks and he rejoined Sherlock and Scottie. “Plan B?” he asked.

“We wait,” Sherlock said. “There’s a park across the street.”

“Ooh ooh can we have a picnic!” Scottie asked eagerly.

Sherlock made a face. “Um. No, but there’s probably a coffee shop nearby.”

“Aw. Never mind, then.”

In another couple of minutes the three of them had migrated to the opposite side of the street and were were sitting on a park bench that faced the barracks. Scottie shifted his gaze from Sherlock to John, who were on opposite sides of him and kept their eyes fixed forward, watching the guardsmen on duty by the gates.

“Do you think they give them classes?” Sherlock wondered aloud.

“Classes?”

“How to resist the temptation to scratch their behinds.”

Scottie snorted. “Afferent neurons in the peripheral nervous system,” John muttered. Sherlock turned his head slightly. “Bum itch,” clarified John.

“Oh.”

There was a brief pause before Sherlock asked “So why don’t you see him anymore?”

“Who?”

“Your previous commander. Sholto.”

“Previous commander,” John echoed.

Sherlock shut his eyes awkwardly. “I meant ex.”

“Previous suggests that I currently have a commander,” John pointed out.

“Which you don’t.”

“Plot twist: it me!” Scottie smiled.

John frowned down at the boy. “Which I don’t.”

Sherlock smiled a little and looked away. “‘Course you don’t. He was decorated, wasn’t he? A war hero.”

“Not to everyone,” the doctor informed him. “He led a team of crows into battle.”

“Crows?”

“New recruits,” explained Scottie.

John nodded. “It’s standard procedure; break the new boys in… But it went wrong. They all died. He was the only survivor. The press and the families gave him hell. He gets more death threats than you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” the detective muttered.

“Why have you suddenly taken an interest in another human being?”

“I’m… chatting.” John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who looked back at him from the corner of his eye. “Won’t be trying that again.”

“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,” Scottie carefully recited. “Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt…”

“Carbon monoxide,” Sherlock said quickly.

“It lies behind stars and under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after.  
Ends life, kills laughter."

The others were quiet for a minute. “Carbon monoxide,” Sherlock tried again.

“Well you’re not wrong,” Scottie shrugged, “but no. That’s not the answer to the riddle.”

“I give up. What is it?” John asked.

“The dark,” Scottie sighed.

“Hm. Alright, I’ve got one,” John started and cleared his throat. “A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.”

“Corn,” Sherlock said.

“An egg,” Scottie answered at the same time.

“Scottie got it,” John smiled.

“Wh… But my answer works too!” Sherlock protested.

Scottie made a small fist pump. “Aw yiss! Ten points to Hufflepuff! Ask me another one.”

“Oh. Okay, um…” John press an index finger to his chin for a moment. “Alright.” He made a gun shape with his hand and proceeded to point it back and forth from Sherlock to Scottie several times in no particular order, saying “bang” each time he lifted his hand.

“What.” Sherlock said flatly.

“Who did I shoot?” John asked.

“Neither of us,” Sherlock answered.

“Both... of us?” guess Scottie.

“It was Sherlock.”

Scottie frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“Okay, let me try again.” John repeated the act, this time in a completely different arrangement. “Who did I shoot?” he asked again.

“Was it me?” Scottie asked.

“Yes. Now how did you know?”

“I didn’t,” the boy admitted. “I just took the 50% chance.”

John sighed. “I think it works better with more people, but… Alright, once more.”

“Let’s not,” Sherlock stopped him. “Unless… Is it by any chance whoever speaks first, regardless of the little show you put on?”

“Oh look, you got one,” John laughed.

“Ooh! My turn again!” Scottie announced. He turned around in bench and pointed to a tree behind them. “Emily showed me this one. Okay, a line from that tree to me is a good line. But a line from that tree to John is a bad line.”

John furrowed his brows. “Wh-Why?”

“Furthermore, a line from Sherlock to that pigeon over there is a bad line. But, okay, a line from John to the pigeon is a good line.”

“So… Am I trying to figure out how to make a good line?” asked John.

“Essentially. Yes.”

“Is a line from… me to you a good line?”

“No?”

“How about a line from you to me?”

“Also no.”

John made a face. “Okay. A line from… the bench to the barracks?”

 

“Yes.”

“Wait really?”

Scottie nodded.

“Well. Regardless I’m still not any closer to knowing why,” John sighed. “Wait where did Sherlock go?” he asked suddenly and leaned forward. Scottie, too, looked around and didn’t see their third companion anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

Presuming that he taken off to have a look inside the barracks, Scottie and John crossed the street again and went in front of the building, where they found another officer who was able to direct them to an office inside belonging to a man called Major Reed. There was only one chair opposite the man’s desk, which John took, resorting Scottie to standing a little ways behind.

John took his ID out and handed it to Major Reed. “Can I ask what this is in connection with?” Reed asked, glancing up from the card after having read it.

“Private Bainbridge contacted us about a personal matter, sir,” John explained.

“Nothing’s personal when it concerns my troops,” the other man grunted. “What do you really want?”

“I’m here on a legitimate enquiry.”

Reed squinted. “Press? Digging for some bloody Royal story or something?”

Scottie pointed towards the card. “No, sir, he’s Captain John Hamish ‘Three Continents’ Watson.”

John wrinkled his nose. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” he finished for him.

“Retired,” Reed reminded him. “You could be a used car salesman now on Take Your Son to Work Day, for all I know.”

“Ooh, sudden Fargo flashbacks,” Scottie cringed.

John looked back at him questioningly. “Fargo?”

Major Reed narrowed his eyes at John. “I know you, don’t I?” he asked.

“Hm?” John turned his head back towards the man.

Tossing John’s card across the table back at him, Reed went on, “I’ve seen you in the papers.” John picked the ID back up and put it into his wallet. “Hang around with that detective - the one with the silly hat. What the hell does Bainbridge want with a detective?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’re not at liberty to say!” huffed Reed. “He’s a soldier in my regiment - I’ll be damned if he’s going to get up to cloak and dagger nonsense like this.”

But their conversation was interrupted by the same duty sergeant from before, who hurried into the room and was now out of breath and panicked. "Sir..."

"What's going on?" demanded Reed.

"It's Bainbridge, sir. He's dead."

Major Reed went pale and jumped up from his seat, following the sergeant out without so much as a word in edgewise. John stood and he and Scottie hurried after them. The group was lead to a shower room, where they could now see Stephen lying across the floor, face-down on top of broken glass and surrounded by a puddle of water and blood.

“Oh my God!” choked Reed. John tried to come closer to the body but was blocked by Major Reed, who held out an arm.

“Ah, no, let me take a look, sir,” John tried. “I’m a doctor.”

“What? Sergeant, arrest this man.”

The duty sergeant took John’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “What? No, no!” John yelped. “I’m a - I’m a doctor!”

“Oh, you’re a doctor now, too. Sergeant…” Reed nodded towards the door. “The other one’s bound to follow.”

A second sergeant came in then with Sherlock, restricting him in a similar manner. “Sir, caught this one snooping around,” he said.

Reed looked to John accusingly. “Is that what this was all about? Distracting me so that this man could get in and kill Bainbridge?”

“Don’t be…”

Sherlock jerked himself free and started towards Stephen. He was almost immediately reigned back in by the man who had brought him and was now pulling at both his arms.

“Kill him with what?” Sherlock spat at Reed, ignoring the guy behind him. “Where’s the weapon?”

“What?”

“Where’s the weapon? Go on, search me.” Sherlock pulled away again and put his arms out wide. “No weapon.”

“Bainbridge was on parade,” John explained. “He came off duty five minutes ago. When’s this supposed to have happened?”

“You obviously stabbed him before he got into the shower,” Reed concluded, looking at Sherlock.

“How could he have?” Scottie spoke up. “The guy’s already undressed with shampoo in his hair. Plus, these kinds of showers lock from inside - that’s why it’s broken open. If Sherlock were in with him then he’d be soaking wet!”

“There you go,” Sherlock gestured to Scottie.

“Major, please,” John said loudly. “I’m John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s bloody Hospital. Let me examine this body.”

After a long and comfortable silence, Reed looked up from Stephen and nodded to the duty sergeant to release John.

“Thank you,” the doctor breathed as he removed his jacket and set it down on a nearby bench. He walked over to Stephen and crouched beside him.

“Suicide?” the duty sergeant asked Sherlock quietly.

“No. The weapon again - no knife.” After finishing his thought Sherlock bent over to have a look inside the shower and then squated in front of Stephen’s body. John was already having a look at the man’s backside.

“It’ll just… be over here,” Scottie said awkwardly shuffling towards the bench to have a seat. It wasn’t necessarily that the scenario made him in any way queasy, but for the time being Scottie didn’t know how he could possibly be of any help, and in this case being in the way meant less time to save Stephen.

“Hm. There is a wound to the abdomen,” John was saying. “Incredibly fine.”

Sherlock watched him with interest. “Man stabbed to death. No murder weapon. Door locked from the inside. Only one way in or out of here.”

John had moved closer to Stephen’s head and opened one of his eyes. “Sherlock.”

“Mm?”

“He’s still breathing.”

“Oh my God,” the duty sergeant realized.

“What do we do?” Sherlock panicked to John.

“Give me your scarf.”

“What?”

“Quickly now.” Sherlock did as he was told and started unwrapping his scarf. John looked at the other men. “Call an ambulance,” he instructed.

“What?” the other sergeant blinked.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE NOW.” John pointed toward the door. “DO IT!”

Both sergeants took off and John pressed the scarf against Stephen’s wound. He glanced up at Sherlock and grabbed his hand, setting it back down over the scarf. “Nurse, press here,” he instructed. “Hard.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Nurse?”

“Yeah, I’m making do. Keep pressure on that wound. Stephen. Stephen, stay with me.”

\---

Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Emily glanced over at him, seeming to ask ‘You okay?’ with her eyes. The man nodded back.

“Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He’d stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go?” Sherlock paused to look round at the guests of the reception, who were all listening intently. “Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish; but in all of this there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?”

Several people exchanged glances, perhaps wondering who - or if anyone at all - would speak up.

“Come on, come on, there is actually an element of Q and A to all of this,” the best man urged. More silence. Sherlock decided to call on someone himself: “Scotland Yard!” Lestrade lifted his head. “Have you got a theory?”

Lestrade blinked back at him owlishly but said nothing.

“Yeah, you. You’re a detective - broadly speaking. Got a theory?”

The D.I. shifted uncomfortably. “Er, um, if the, uh, if the… if-if-if, if the blade was, er, propelled through the, um… grating in the air vent… maybe a-a ballista or a - or a - or a catapult? Erm, somebody tiny could… could crawl in there.” Lestrade sucked in a sharp breath. “So, yeah, we’re loo… We’re looking for a-a-a-a dwarf.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock responded slowly.

“Really?”

“No. Next!”

“He stabbed himself,” Tom suddenly whispered to Molly.

“I did not!” Stephen scoffed, turning in his seat.

“Hello? Who was that?” Sherlock looked out at the crowd and then spotted the man who had spoken. “Tom. Got a theory?”

Tom swallowed and slowly got to his feet. “Um… attempted suicide,” he guessed. Stephen stiffened at this, but Emily took his hand in her own from under the table and squeezed it. “With a blade made of compacted blood and bone; broke after piercing his abdomen, like a meat… dagger.”

A few snickers could be heard at this theory. Molly looked away, embarrassed by her fiance.

“A meat dagger,” echoed Sherlock.

“Yes.”

“Sit. Down.” Molly seethed through gritted teeth.

“No,” Sherlock told him. Tom shifted awkwardly and sunk back into his chair.

Before Sherlock could continue, however, Scottie suddenly shot his hand up into the air.

"Scottie no. Bad Scottie. Whatever you're thinking, stop that." But the boy ignored Emily and kept his hand up above his head and waving about.

"Yes? Scottie?" Sherlock asked, noticing. "Do you have a theory?"

"Oh hell," Emily exhaled and put her head in her hands.

"Well you said that the Bloody Guardsman couldn't possibly have been in the same place as the attack," Scottie said loudly, trying his best to look like he was guessing at the answer rather than reciting what he already knew. Stephen cringed once more at the nickname but didn't correct him this time. "What if he was attacked before getting into the shower?"

"How so?" Sherlock asked, slightly intrigued.

"Say a needle-like sword. Something he wouldn't notice at first, stuck in through, perhaps... his belt, from the back? And then when it was removed it would open the wound, causing him to bleed out!"

Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment before dismissing his theory as well. "I admire your creativity, but again I'm going to have to say no."

Emily let her hands drop to the table and snapped her head up at the best man with a look of complete and utter disbelief. "Seriously?"

“There was one feature, and only one feature, of interest in the whole of this baffling case,” Sherlock continued, “and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson - who, while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life. There are mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know - and on top of that he actually knows how to do stuff…” Sherlock looked down at John who laughed a little, perhaps embarrassed. “Except wedding planning and serviettes. He’s rubbish at those.”

“True!” John admitted. A laugh rippled throughout the room.

“The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly-planned murder - or attempted murder - I’ve ever had the pleasure to encounter; the most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware. However, I’m not just here to praise John. I’m also here to embarrass him, so let’s move on to some…”

“No, no, wait,” Lestrade interrupted. “So how was it… How was it done?”

“How was what done?”

“The stabbing.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted shamefully. “I didn’t solve that one. That’s… It can happen sometimes. It’s very… very disappointing.”

“EXCEPT I DO!” Scottie shouted and threw his hand up again.

“Scottie!” Emily hissed.

Sherlock frowned at this. “Um. No, we already dismissed your theory. But thanks again.”

Now Scottie leaned over the tabletop to face Lestrade and said rather loudly “DETECTIVE INSPECTOR, I WILL BET YOU TEN POUNDS THAT HE’S WRONG AND MY THEORY IS CORRECT.”

“Okay, you’re on,” mused Lestrade.

Sherlock clenched a fist at his side and took a moment to steady his breathing before going on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Embarrassment! Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course there’s hours of material here, but I’ve cut it down to the really good bits...”

\---

Emily and Scottie were curled up on top of each other on the couch and marathoning Gravity Falls when John suddenly swung his head into the living room.

“Well? Aren’t you getting ready?”

Scottie leaned forward and paused the show, which made Emily moan a bit at her sudden loss of the pillow his shoulder had been providing. “For what?” he asked.

“My… stag night. I thought that was obvious?”

“You want us at your stag night?” Emily questioned.

“Well. Yeah,” the man admitted, stepping in all the way. “Otherwise it’ll just be Sherlock and I, which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, but it isn’t much of a party.”

Emily looked at Scottie, who shrugged, and then back at John. “I’m a girl though. Are you sure that’s appropriate?”

“I mean. Okay, so it goes against the spirit of a traditional stag night but. Please? For me?”

“Are you sure we should be even going into bars?” Scottie whispered to his friend.

Now Emily rolled her eyes and looked back at him. “Scottie please. We’re in the UK, remember? And do you know what’s illegal in the UK? That’s right. Practically nothing.”

“Actually I can name quite a few things,” John muttered half to himself.

“We’re coming!” Emily announced happily for the both of them and used her weight against Scottie to push herself up.

“No they’re not,” Sherlock disagreed, coming in from the kitchen.

“Sherlock, we talked about this. It’s my stag night. If I say I want them there then they’re going to be there.”

“Not all that ago you were saying you didn’t want anything to do with them!” the detective protested.

“Not all that…” John started to echo. “Sherlock, it’s been eight months. A lot has changed since then. ‘Sides, if you’ll remember, half a year ago I didn’t want anything to do with you either.”

“Fine,” Sherlock gave in bitterly. “But they’d better not make us late. I want to be out the door in five.”

“Oh, relax, would you?” John sighed.

Without waiting for either of them to change their minds, Scottie and Emily took off downstairs to change out of the pajamas they’d been wearing for the entirety of the day thus far. It was really closer to ten minutes before the two of them rejoined Sherlock and John on the landing outside of 221C, with Emily having to redo her makeup and pick out jewelry while Scottie was practically in and out.

“We’re ready!” Emily announced, hopping over on one foot as she tried to zip up her boots at the same time.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Scottie grumbled.

Sherlock whirled around and gave the girl a disapproving once-over. “Oh, no no no no. What are you wearing?”

“A… jacket? And scarf? Because it’s… cold outside and going to get dark soon?”

“Absolutely not. Go change.”

Emily threw her hands out to the side indignantly. “Wh-Why?!”

“I think you know why,” the detective accused.

“This is unfair,” Emily pouted. “First John wouldn’t let me out of the flat in that new sweater I bought and now Sherlock isn’t okay with me wearing a scarf that’s in the same color range as his.”

“Your entire backside was exposed,” John reminded her.

“Oh, God forbid anyone see the clasp of my bra! It’s called fashion, John. Look it up.”

“What are you talking about?” Scottie chuckled. “John knows about fashion. Haven’t you seen him model this jumper collection line? There’s oatmeal edition, inmate edition--”

“Okay yes that’s quite enough out of you,” John said.

“At least exchange it for your pink one,” begged Sherlock. “With the hibiscus print.”

“I thought you said we were in a time crunch?”

“Emily.”

“I’ll be back,” the girl exhaled and scurried back down the stairs into her own flat.

\---

Once the four of them had reached their first destination, Sherlock told them to wait for him at a table. The consulting detective returned shortly struggling to carry four rather sizeable graduated cylinders full of beer.

“Ah...” John breathed, looking at the cylinders skeptically.

“Um. Is now a bad time to mention I don’t drink?” Scottie asked as Sherlock set them down in front of them.

“Oh come on, live a little!” Emily laughed as she took one of the cylinders and had a sip. As soon as it touched her lips, however, her face scrunched up and she struggled to swallow it. “Ugh, that’s horrible!” Emily choked and wiped her mouth with a sleeve.

“It’s.... not really about the taste,” John told her.

“Then what the fuck is the point of drinking?”

“Told you they shouldn’t have come,” Sherlock mumbled as he took out his phone and set a timer on an app he’d opened.

John took up his own cylinder and glanced over at the device. “What, are we on a schedule?”

“You’ll thank me later.” With a smile, he clinked his cylinder against John’s and they both took a drink.

Emily had since gone back to the bar herself and returned with a normal class of Sprite and an empty cup. After dividing the soda into two, she carefully carefully set them down on the table to begin pouring a bit of the cylinder’s contents into each and then had a sip. “Okay, this I can do,” she said with a satisfied nod. Emily took the other glass and held it out towards Scottie. “Wanna try some?”

“I’ll pass,” he answered.

John frowned at her concoction. “Why would you…?”

“Because this way I can’t taste it as much but I’m still technically drinking.”

“That sounds like a great way to get very drunk without realizing how much you’ve had,” Sherlock commented.

“Not with how slow I drink it!” Emily took another another very small sip and pursed her lips.

About a half hour and four or five bars later, Sherlock and John had had quite a bit to drink already. With her strategy Emily was only slightly tipsy, and Scottie remained entirely sober. Sherlock and John finished the last of their current round of beers and set the cylinders down in front of themselves with a grimace.

“Over there,” Sherlock said above the loud music, pointing past John.

“What?” John leaned in.

“Toilets. Any second now, you’re going to--”

“Hang on, tell me after,” John shouted back, lowering Sherlock’s arm. “I need the loo.”

“Mm, on schedule,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Eh?”

“Nothing - go!” As John stumbled off in the direction of the bathrooms, Sherlock went back to adjusting charts on his phone.

“Dance with me,” Emily let out suddenly and started tugging at the man’s coat sleeve.

“What?”

“I said dance with me,” she pleaded, practically yelling over the music. “I love this song.”

“...you don’t know this song.”

“You wanted me to come, so c’mon and dance with me!”

“But I didn’t want you to come.”

Clearly Emily couldn’t hear him, because she shouted back “Yeah, that’s the spirit!” and jerked him away from the table by the crook of his arm. Sherlock threw a helpless look to Scottie, who merely shrugged back at him gave a playful wave with her fingers.

John returned several minutes later and stopped in front of the table he'd last seen Sherlock at, his brows furrowed.

"He's dancing with Emily,” Scottie told him in a raised voice. “And he’s a lot better than her, evidently.”

At first John didn't seem to believe the kid, but then he saw that this was, in fact, the case and briefly wondered if his friend was more drunk than he had previously thought. Their next stop was a karaoke bar. Much to everyone’s surprise John was the one to suggest they perform a group number, and he picked out Paradise by the Dashboard Light. Sherlock and Scottie both didn’t know the song, so they opted out, and the resulting combination wasn’t entirely appropriate but still amusing nonetheless.

“Ain’t no doubt about it,” John and Emily sang into the same microphone, even though Emily had one of her own that she was holding down. “Baby, got to go out and shout it! Ain’t no doubt about it, we were double blessed!”

“‘Cause we were barely seventeen and we were barely dressed!” John finished the chorus. Grinning widely, John went back up to the screen feeding him the lyrics and went on: “Baby, don’t you hear my heart? You got it drowning out the radio. I’ve been waiting so long for you to come and have some fun…”

“Well this is fun,” Sherlock said, having to speak up over the karaoke music. He joined Scottie at the table, having brought him over a tray of nachos.

“I actually can’t remember ever hearing John sing before,” Scottie commented. “He’s quite good.”

“Beats having to sit through him getting a lapdance, in any case.”

Scottie laughed and took one of the nachos. “So when’s your solo?”

“Nice try,” Sherlock chuckled.

“Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night, I can see paradise by the dashboard light. Thought it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night, I can see paradise by the dashboard light…”

More time passed, and with it the group migrated through more than one additional bar. Sherlock and John had since moved on from beer and now filled their cylinders with slightly stronger alcohol. At the same time Scottie took the liberty of continually replacing each of Emily's drinks with pure soda as often as possible, which she didn't even seem to notice and in turn made Scottie a little concerned.

By the time they'd reached the final pub they would go to that night, Sherlock and John were just about plastered. The more time went on the more everyone in the group but Scottie seemed to be enjoying themselves. The lights, blasting Dubstep and mass of intoxicated people put the boy on edge, and Scottie had resorted to keeping watch from the ends of the room, his arms folded over his stomach and watching the party atmosphere with various looks of disgust.

Emily was sitting at the bar and apparently getting friendly with a complete stranger who had to be in the same age range as her. Scottie stiffened but ultimately decided not to get involved. He turned his head towards Sherlock, who was in the midst of a semi-heated conversation with another patron. A middle-aged woman with electric blue hair stumbled right into Scottie then, causing him to teeter backwards for a moment before regaining balance.

“Sorry,” he apologized, even though the event clearly wasn’t his fault. This woman probably needed to slow it down on the alcohol intake as well.

“Hey, you’re actually kinda cuuute,” the woman slurred, running her finger down the boy’s front.

At this Scottie internally panicked and went to break up Emily’s social interaction, but by the time he got to the bar Scottie realized that she was no longer sitting at its counter. By the time he relocated the girl, he found her exiting the building with the stranger’s arm around her. Scottie squeaked and darted after them. Unfortunately, in his pursuit he bumped into not one, but three different people, the last of which spilled some of their nasty-smelling booze down his shirt. Scottie let out a whine but instead of confronting the other person about it kept going forward.

“GOD DAMNIT EMILY!” Scottie yelled as soon as he got outside.

His friend stopped at the mention of her name. “There you are. This is, um… This is…” She looked up at the man she was with questioningly.

“Jacob,” he reminded her.

“Okay yeah this is Jacob,” Emily in turn told Scottie. “He’s really sweet. He’s taking me to a party!” For some reason Emily must’ve found this funny, because she began laughing.

“No he’s not,” Scottie said sternly.

“Wh-Why not?” the girl’s giggling trailed off.

“Because, this is John’s bachelor party and I’m not about to let you go home with some creepy guy you just met!”

“Hey, why don't you piss off and let her make her own decisions?" Jacob grunted.

Scottie glowered back at him. “Emily. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Aw but mooooooom,” Emily pouted.

Ignoring her protests, Scottie took the girl by the end of her sleeve and pulled her several feet away from her new friend. Although she wasn’t necessarily resisting, Emily appeared to be unable to walk in a straight line, which wasn’t helping much either. Once he felt a safe enough distance away from the stranger, Scottie raised his eyes at Emily in a sort of ‘what the fuck do you think you’re getting into now’ sort of way.

"No, shh," Emily blurted out before Scottie even started to speak. She touched his lips with an index finger. "Listen. Okay? Are you listening?"

Scottie swatted her hand away. "Can you seriously not?"

"Listen. I've only known Josh--"

"Jacob."

"--Jacob for twelve minutes tops but we're soulmates."

Scottie narrowed his eyes at her and then just decided it easier to drop the whole thing. "Okay, fuck it. Just do what you want," he breathed.

Emily straightened. "...wait really?"

"Yes. You're an adult and I am not getting paid to play babysitter to a grown-ass woman."

Emily shifted uncomfortably. Now she wasn't sure that he was playing at. "That's really irresponsible of you, though," she pointed out. "Letting a drunk person go home with a stranger, regardless of how physically attractive he is."

"YOU AREN'T EVEN DRUNK!" Scottie finally exploded. "YOU'VE BEEN DRINKING NOTHING BUT SPRITE FOR THE LAST HOUR!"

"I'm not...?" Emily put her tongue to her cheek for a moment. "Well this is a tad embarrassing."

"Oi! What's the hold up, bitch?" Jacob called from behind them.

"Sorry Josh!" Emily shouted back at him from over her shoulder, despite the fact that he wasn't far away at all. "Turns out we are not, in fact, soulmates."

Right on cue Sherlock and John stumbled out of the bar. Sherlock was in the midst of rambling on about ash and continually teetered back and forth like he was bound to collapse any moment now.. "Aw geez. I'm gonna call a cab," Emily decided, already pulling out her phone.

\---

“H-Hold up…” Stephen started, glancing sidelong at Emily. “How long ago was this, exactly?”

She tilted her head back. “What does it matter?”

“Well, Sherlock says he saw you hitting it off with a guy at one of the pubs. Was this before I met you or--”

“C-Can we not talk about this now?” Emily requested, looking flustered suddenly.

“Even if I promise I won’t get mad…?”

“I was drunk,” Emily hissed, lowering her voice. "Now shut and listen to the man's story."

Scottie rolled his eyes. “Oy vey.”

\---

Once they’d gotten back to 221 Baker Street, Sherlock and John came in first but didn’t make it much further than that. Almost immediately Sherlock dropped to his knees and started trying to climb up the stairs on all fours. But even this task proved too difficult for the time being, and so Sherlock rolled onto his side facing the railing.

“Naptime,” he muttered and closed his eyes.

John didn’t seem to find anything wrong with this, and so he settled down on the stairs next to him and with his back pressed against the wall.

“Guess we’re waiting around here for a bit,” Scottie muttered and slid down against the wall at the foot of the stairs. Emily, in turn, went around to the actual armchair out on the landing and claimed it for herself.

They were all quiet for some time before Sherlock softly said “I have an international reputation.” John’s eyes fluttered open and then closed again as he shifted positions. “Do you have an international reputation?” Sherlock asked, lifting his head to try and look back.

“No, I don’t have an international reputation,” John told him.

“No.”

“I once was internet famous for a Twilight fan fiction series?” Emily offered. Scottie looked at her judgingly through the stairs’ railing. “It was a dark time.”

“And I can’t even remember what for,” Sherlock went on, his eyes still shut. “Sss… Crimes… something or other.”

The door to 221A swung open then and Mrs. Hudson came out carrying a trash bag. “Ooh!” the women let out upon seeing the group lounging about in the landing. “What are you doing back? I thought you were going to be out late.”

“Ah, Hudders,” Sherlock slurred. “What time is it?”

His landlady glanced down at her watch. “You’ve only been out two hours.”

At this John and Sherlock tried to stand at the same time. Unfortunately they were wedged too closely together and Sherlock almost immediately fell back down again, sliding down a step.

“Oh dear, don’t tell me you all are wasted already!” Mrs. Hudson scoffed.

“Just those two,” Emily told her. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on them.”

“Alright. Well, I hope you had fun, at least.”

Scottie stood and told her that they did, and after nodding to them Mrs. Hudson continued taking out the trash. Emily got up and the teenagers did their best to help Sherlock and John up the stairs without either of them tumbling back down them again, which proved to be more challenging than they’d originally assumed.

Once Sherlock and John had been successfully shepherded into the living room Sherlock suddenly declared that they ought to play a game, but hadn’t the faintest idea what said game should be. John suggested what apparently is know as the ‘rizla game’ in the U.K., but Emily knew it from the app as Head’s Up and Scottie was familiar with the game but not aware of it having any formal title. They four of them each wrote a name on their own Post-It and handed it off to another player, then Sherlock and John climbed into their respective armchairs and Scottie and Emily pulled up chairs between them to form a circle.

“Am I a vegetable?” John asked.

Sherlock, still holding a glass of whiskey, pointed to John with his free hand and squinted. “You or the thing?” They both snickered at this.

“Funny!” John let out.

“Thank you.”

“Come on.”

“No, you’re not a vegetable,” Sherlock told him, his words coming out a bit jumbled together.

“It’s your go,” John turned to Scottie. He picked up his own glass and took a sip.

The boy pursed his lips and looked round at the names written on Post-Its that were stuck to his friends’ foreheads. John had picked his, but that didn’t really help narrow it down. “Am I a male?” he asked, figuring it was the best place to start.

“Yes,” the others said at once, one with a little more conviction than the rest.

“So, I’m a person, then?”

“Oi! One question per turn,” Emily reminded him. “Now it’s you, Sherlock.”

“Okay…” The detective blinked a couple times. “Er… Am I human?”

John opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again, frowning at Sherlock’s Post-It, which read Benadryl Cantaloupe. “I don’t…” he started to say, shaking his head with a bewildered look.

“Okay, technically no,” Scottie tried to clarify, “but in this case yes.”

“No, no, can’t do that,” Sherlock argued. “Has to be, um…” The man trailed off and sat up a little more in his armchair.

“You’re human,” Emily confirmed with a glare towards Scottie, who snorted. “I told you that was a terrible idea,” she lectured, her voice lower now. “He’s never going to get it even if it had been written the right way. It’s literally impossible.”

“Shhhhh I’m hilarious,” Scottie chuckled.

“...yes or no…” Sherlock finished his sentence very late. “Okay.” He leaned forward. “And am I a man?”

“Jesus Christ no one follows the rules,” Emily sighed frustratedly. “Fine! Ask however many fucking questions you want on your turn, completely ruin the flow of the game! See if I care!”

John shrugged in response to Sherlock’s question.

“Yes,” Scottie told him.

“Tall?”

John kept shaking his head and had another sip.

“Wait, Sherlock wrote mine, right?” Emily asked. “Am I by any chance… Madonna?”

John spit out his drink and Sherlock’s eyes widened. “HOW” the doctor demanded, whiskey now dripping from his chin.

“I’m psychic,” Emily replied matter-of-factly.

“Must’ve seen me… writing…” Sherlock decided and relaxed back into his seat.

“You’re not psychic, you’re a piece of shit,” Scottie informed her in the same tone.

“Haters gonna hate, but I fucking won in one round and you didn’t, bitch.”

“Yes, congrats. You finally won a thing by cheating. You must be so proud.”

Now it was John’s turn to ask another question. The man took another swig, uncrossed his legs and inched forward so far that in his drunken stupor he thought he was going to fall off and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s knee in order to keep from doing so. He used the knee to push himself back and looked at his hand. “I don’t mind,” he announced, holding both hands out now and shrugging. Sherlock also shrugged.

“Gaaaaaay,” Scottie whispered.

“Am I a woman?” John asked.

Sherlock glanced over at Emily - whose full name was currently on John’s forehead - and said “Yes.” Emily squinted back at him, perhaps wondering why he had to look and being drunk was not a good enough excuse.

John shifted a little. “Am I… pretty?” He pointed up at his Post-It. “This.” John then immediately melted so that he was struggling to hold his head up with a fist. Emily blinked and looked to Sherlock expectantly, like she already knew the answer.

“Er… Er, beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models,” the man slurred.

“Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?” pressed John.

Sherlock turned back to Emily and stared for almost too long. He was joined in by Scottie. Once finished, Sherlock and Scottie exchanged glances and went “ehhhhhhhh” with wiggly hand gestures. Offended, Emily snatched up Sherlock’s glass and splashed the remainder of it in his face. Sherlock sprung up at this with a gasp, but before he had time to even get angry with her, John started chuckling and made a sort of snorting noise. Sherlock also laughed and threw himself down again. His now wet Post-It fluttered off in the process and he stuck it back on without peeking at it before starting to wipe at his face with a sleeve.

Scottie thought for a moment. “Is mine Sherlock Holmes?”

“Points for effort, but no,” Emily snickered. “John picked a different one for you.”

“...is mine Scottie Lewis?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck, I don’t know, gimme a hint,” Scottie requested.

“But you’ve barely asked any questions,” Emily pointed out.

“I don’t care. I still demand a hint.”

“He’s...” John started to tell Scottie. “With a… with…” He cupped his hands over his ears which was virtually no help to anyone in the room.

Emily looked up at Scottie’s name: Brian Griffith. “Think Cabin Pressure,” she tried to help him. “The first game they played.”

“BRIANS OF BRITAIN!”

“And Bing-o was his name-o.”

“I think that’s cheating,” John clicked his tongue, as if he weren’t really sure if that was the case or not.

“Okay, um… Brian Blessed. Brian Eno. Brian Perkins.”

“Did you memorize those?” Emily asked, not sure if she was impressed or worried.

“...no,” Scottie looked away sheepishly.

Emily sighed. “Don’t you think it would be easier to just list some famous Brians and hope you get lucky?”

“No,” Scottie informed her. “No. It really wouldn’t. OH!" His eyes widened as an idea formed. "Is it Brian Lukis?”

Emily frowned. “Who?”

"You know, the guy from Sherlock. Who got murdered by Soo Lin's brother in Blind Banker."

Sherlock had to do a double take as he wasn't entirely sure he'd actually just heard Scottie say this. Emily continued to stare back at her friend without any sign of recognition.

"He was like, in the first ten seconds of the episode?" the boy tried again.

"Episode," John echoed slowly. He puckered his lips and looked down at his drink distrustingly before setting it down ever so slowly.

"What's one of his lines?" Emily asked.

"Lines..." Sherlock now repeated, looking every bit as concerned.

Scottie shrugged. "Well he didn't speak at all except for agonized screams as he got murdered."

"Yeah I don't know but it isn't him." Emily leaned back in her seat and decided to give up.

"Brian Epstein!" Scottie exclaimed.

"What?"

"He was John Lennon's gay best friend who was often considered the fifth Beatle and--"

"Okay Wikipedia, calm down," Emily promptly shushed him with a wave of her hand. “You’re not… whoever that was either.”

“Give me another hint, then.”

“I… I don’t know yours. Ask John. He came up with it.’

“Oh great,” Scottie grumbled. “So it’s probably some old guy neither of us have ever heard of.” 

“You’re a… you’re a dog,” John clarified. “You’re cartoon… a cartoon dog. Like... ‘ruh roh’... That one. But… not.”

“What the… Why did no one tell me it was a dog?”

Emily shrugged. “Well don’t look at me! I didn’t know that!”

Scottie folded his arms and slumped back in his seat. “Well, great. Now I’m really stumped. A dog named Brian… Does it seriously have a last name or is it just fucking Brian because I swear to God, Emily.”

Sherlock’s Post-It came loose again and this he looked down at it sitting in his lap. Sherlock blinked, picking up the soggy Post-It and holding it close to his face now. “Wait a… Are you telling me, some poor bloke is really named… Benadryl-fucking-Cantaloupe?”

“Benedict Cumberbatch,” Emily sighed, rubbing a face over her hand. “His real name is Benedict Cumberbatch.”

“Like that’s any better!” Sherlock sounded genuinely distressed. Emily nearly fell out of her chair at this.

“We are one with the fourth wall,” Scottie whispered.

There was a knock at the front door. John, who had apparently just started to doze off, lifted his head again in a quick, jerky motion. “Ooh-ooh!” Mrs. Hudson called from the doorway. “Client!”

“Hallo,” John let out groggily at the woman who was standing beside the landlady.

Sherlock gave a little wave and he, too, said “Hallo!”

Mrs. Hudson dismissed herself. “Come on,” John told the stranger, gesturing into the room.

“Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?”

John grinned most winningly back at her and made a noise not unlike a tea kettle going off as he pointed towards Sherlock, who smiled and waved yet again.

“Is this a bad time?” the woman asked hesitantly. Sherlock and John assured her that it wasn’t the entirety of the group migrated over to the couch, at least remembering to move their Post-Its first. The woman, whose name turned out to be Tessa, pulled up one of the chairs they’d been using for herself and began her story.

“I don’t… a lot… I mean, I don’t… date all that much,” Tessa muttered. “And… he seemed… nice, you know? We seemed to automatically connect. We had one night - dinner, such interesting conversation. It was… lovely. To be honest, I’d love to have gone further, but I thought, ‘No, this is special; let’s take it slowly, exchange numbers’.”

As Tessa spoke, Sherlock and John seemed to be drifting in and out of sleep and shifted positions several times. Scottie and Emily even started to feel embarrassed by them, but Tessa either didn’t notice or was too wrapped up in her account of the man to call them out on it.

“He said he’d get in touch and then… Maybe he wasn’t quite as keen as I was. But I-I just thought” - Tessa’s eyes started to water now - “at least he’d call to say that we were finished.” She paused to wipe away a tear. Tessa inhaled and continued. “I went round there, to his flat. No trace of him, Mr. Holmes. I honestly think I had dinner… with a ghost.” Beat. “Mr. Holmes?”

“You know what?” Scottie started, “I’m gonna be perfectly honest with you, Tessa, these boys have been out drinking themselves sick up until this point - I know, on the job, it’s very unprofessional - but as I’m sure you can probably already tell, neither Mr. Holmes nor Dr. Watson are in any condition to work your case tonight, so.”

“What about drunklock?” Emily protested quietly.

“Drunklock’s only funny when you can actually see Sherlock failing to make proper deductions. In this case we won’t, and it can only end in us having to watch them get arrested and go home alone or, probably even a less desired outcome, having to somehow drag them back into a cab ourselves.”

“Alternatively…” Spinning around with a look of newfound determination, Emily blurted out “Scottie and I will have a look at the guy’s supposed flat!” She immediately threw a hand over her mouth and looked nervously to Sherlock and John, not wanting to wake them.

“You?” scoffed Tessa. “But you’re--” Emily held out her hands as if asking the woman to keep her voice down. “But you’re just a couple of kids,” Tessa tried again at a lower volume.

“Man, if I had a pound for every time someone wrongfully assume that...” Scottie muttered.

“Please, ma’am. I promise that we’re very professional, and we’ve been working closely under Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson for some time now - even helped them solve a few of their cases. So I suggest you let us help you out or you’re going to have to just come back another day.”

Tessa took a moment to chew on her lip in contemplation before ultimately giving in.

Having come in her own car, Tessa drove the teenagers to a flat located at the other end of town, where they met with the landlord, who remembered having met Tessa once before. She explained the situation to him and he skeptically unlocked the front door to the guy’s flat and let them in.

“I honestly don’t know what you expect to find here,” the landlord grunted.

Scottie held up a hand and shushed him. The boy came further into the room and circled around it slowly, having a look at the variety of miscellaneous objects and furniture with his arms folded behind his back. Emily kept behind and watched him beside Tessa and the landlord, perhaps just as curious as them at what he would conclude about the place. Scottie stopped in front of a large inflatable green ball and had a seat on it, bouncing in place a couple times.

“Scottie,” Emily warned.

“Sorry,” he called back. “Always wanted one of those.” The boy got up again and resumed his work. At the opposite corner of the far end of the room he turned around to face the others. "Emily? Can I speak to you for a moment?" Scottie politely requested. The girl gave a little nod towards Tessa and the landlord and scurries up to her friend. "What exactly are we supposed to be doing here?" Scottie asked, dropping his voice.

Emily stared back at him like the answer should be obvious. "We're... investigating?"

"No. No, we not investigating. I’ve mostly just been wandering around a flat pretending that something is going to tell us more about the Mayfly Man."

"I thought you said you wanted to start doing solo work again?" Emily asked.

"I did. But this - this isn't taking on a small case by ourselves," Scottie told her. "This is a piece of something much bigger."

"Then tell that to Tessa!" Emily suggested. "You're right in implying that we obviously can't explain the full case. So make up some BS story about how you realize that this is linked to a series of other incidents with women dating a guy they later found out was deceased."

"But... that's true?"

"Okay. So then...?" Emily nodded towards Tessa. Swallowing, Scottie went back over to the woman and the landlord.

“I could be wrong,” Scottie started, trying to make himself taller than he actually was, “but I think it’s a likely assumption that the man you went out with did not actually reside here.”

“But… But that’s impossible,” Tess said. “He told me--”

“I realize what he told you, and all that was true about the deceased who actually did live in this flat. Thing is, I have cause to believe that your guy was someone else who adopted the persona for a single night and then threw it away again once he no longer had need for it. We’ve recently received similar cases and it’s very possible that they are all linked and a single man is responsible.”

Tessa’s brows furrowed. “So you’re telling me that… I dated a man who has been going around pretending to be a lot of other dead people?”

“Yeah,” Emily answered softly. “S-Sorry about that.”

“Oh the upside, he was a jerk and you can do better?” Scottie suggested, throwing in a set of jazz hands in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Is that all you need around here?” asked the landlord.

“W-Wait - I’d still like to find him!” Tessa said. “If this really is the case, as outrageous as it sounds, I’d quite like to hear it from Marshal - or, whoever he really is, I suppose.”

“And in that case we’ll keep looking,” Emily promised.

“But I think that’s as far we’re going to get from here.”

Emily’s eyes widened for a moment as she remembered something: “And um, Tessa… If it would be alright with you, could we please get a ride back to Baker Street? I kind of forgot to grab my wallet on the way out.”

\---

“Oh look, right where we left them,” Scottie breathed a sigh of relief upon reentering 221B.

Sherlock and John remained asleep on the couch. By this point John had slumped over and was lying across Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock had his head back over the top of the piece of furniture and his mouth was opened a bit. Emily disappeared around the corner and came back in moments later with a comforter she had ripped off of Sherlock’s bed. This she threw over the boys as much as possible in their current position, but made the effort not to cover John’s head. Backing up a ways, Emily snapped a picture of the display on her phone and then started back downstairs.

The following morning she and Scottie didn’t wake up until nearly noon. They came upstairs to find Sherlock busy behind his laptop at the kitchen table. Spread out in front of him was a London map that had been marked up with pins.

“Morning sunshine,” Emily greeted.

“There are going to be others,” Sherlock muttered.

“Others?” echoed Scottie.

“Victims, women. Most ghosts tend to haunt a single house. This ghost, however, is willing to commute. Look.”

Scottie came over to see what he was up to. Emily didn’t bother looking and simply came further in the kitchen to stick a piece of bread into the toaster. “So you are interested in the case, then?” she asked.

Sherlock lifted his head towards her. “Of course. Why did you let me fall asleep like that?”

Emily glanced over her shoulder at this. “Oh, trust me. It was for the best.”

John came into the kitchen door frame then. “Am I late to the party?”

“God knows you need another party,” mumbled Sherlock. The detective stood up and looked down at his map. After a moment he picked up his laptop and moved it to the living room coffee table. The others watched him curiously as he went and left the room and came back with a second laptop. Emily’s toast popped up then and she started to butter it.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Scottie realized, coming into the living room as well.

Without saying anything Sherlock opened it up on the coffee table next to his and did the same thing with John and Emily’s, plus two more laptops he had fished out of somewhere.

“I knew I should’ve put a password on that,” Emily mumbled.

“Wouldn’t help,” John told her. “I should know.”

“Also why can’t he just use multiple tabs like any normal human being?”

“Okay but he really could just ask,” Scottie frowned. “What if I had a porn folder on there or something?”

Emily smirked. “If you did it’d just be pictures of Sherlock.”

“Shhh.”

“And John and Lestrade and Moriarty and--”

“SHHHHHHHH.”

“You okay?” John asked, coming over to Sherlock after a while. The detective had stood up and stared down at the array of computers for some time, ignoring him. “Let your food go cold,” John tried again. “Mrs. Hudson’ll play hell.”

“Not now, John.” Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and crouched down in front of the coffee table again, beginning to type at one of the laptops.

John sighed and tried to walk away, but it wasn’t long before curiosity got the best of him and he came back to Sherlock’s side and knelt down to read what he’d been typing. “But only for one night,” he said. Sherlock shifted his glance over to the other man. “Then he’s gone.”

“He’s not a ghost, John,” the consulting detective said. “He’s a mayfly. He lives for a day.”

John shook his head and started back towards the kitchen. “Hey, has anyone fed you kids yet?”

“I mean.” Emily looked down at the piece of toast she was holding. “I have this? It’s not very exciting.”

Some time passed and Sherlock eventually grew frustrated and slammed one of the laptops shut. “Why?” Sherlock wondered aloud, straightening. “Why would he date all those women and not return their calls?”

John came back into the room. “You’re missing the obvious, mate.”

“Am I?” Sherlock asked, turning.

“He’s a man.”

Sherlock quickly slammed down the lids of each of the laptops on by one. “OI!” Emily let out, hurrying to reclaim her own.

“But why would he change his identity?” demanded Sherlock.

“Because he’s married,” John insisted.

“Oh,” Sherlock realized.

\---

“Married,” Sherlock concluded back at the reception. “Obvious, really. Our Mayfly Man was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity, and instead of endless nights in watching the telly or going to barbecues with awful dreadful boring people he couldn’t stand, he used his wits, cleverness and powers of disguise… to take the field. He was…” Sherlock stopped again, realizing that something was off. Apparently his audience was no longer pleased with where he was going with this story.

“On second thoughts I probably should have told you about the Elephant in the Room,” the man admitted. “However, it does help to further illustrate how invaluable John is to me. I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that’s what made me special - quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise: should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that; I should know. He’s saved mine so many times, and in so many ways.”

Sherlock held up his phone again to illustrate a point. “This blog is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures. Of murder, mystery, and mayhem. But from now on there’s a new story. A bigger adventure.” The detective glanced down at the newlyweds as they smiled back at him. “Ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding.”

On his cue the entirely of the room reached for their glasses and got to their feet. The photographer came forward with his camera out.

“Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is…” But he trailed off then and suddenly appeared frozen in place. “...here today,” Sherlock finished, but it was fairly obvious that he wasn’t talking about the same thing anymore. Sherlock’s grip on his own glass loosened and it fell from his hand, hitting the ground and shattering. He looked down at it. “Ooh, sorry. I…”

“Another glass, sir?” the head waiter offered.

“Thank you, yes,” Sherlock said, taking it from him. “Thank you. Yes.”

“Emily,” Scottie said, shaking the girl’s shoulder with his free hand. He shook even harder. “Emily!”

“Not now!” she hissed back at him.

“But EMILYYYYY.”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock shook his head. “Raising glasses and standing up. Very good. Thank you.” He raised both his hands and gestured downwards. “And down again.” Some of the guests exchanged glances as they had a seat again. Sherlock set his new glass down on the table. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he started again, “people tell you not to milk a good speech. Get off early, leave ‘em laughing. Wise advice I’ll certainly try to bear in mind. But for now…” Sherlock suddenly leapt over the table. “Part two!” he exclaimed after having done so.

“I LOVE PART TWO.” Scottie wheezed and started shaking Emily again. Scottie aside, everyone else in the room remained frozen in confusion and perhaps even fear.

“Part two is more action-based,” Sherlock stalled, coming down somewhat of an aisle between the tables. “I’m gonna… walk around, shake things up a bit. Who’d go to a wedding? That’s the question. Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding?” Sherlock stopped a little more than halfway through the room and spun around again. “Well. Everyone.” The detective clapped his hands together. “Weddings are great! Love a wedding.”

“What’s he doing?” Mary asked John quietly, but close enough to their table for Scottie and Emily to still hear.

“Something’s wrong,” John answered.

“And John’s great, too!” Sherlock said with an enthusiastic point. “Haven’t said that enough. Barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his… jumpers. Oatmeal edition, inmate edition - not my copyright phrasing, sadly, but quite accurate! Also he can cook. Does a… thing… thing with peas… once. Might not be peas,” Sherlock admitted, coming back down the aisle towards them. “Might not be him. But he’s got a great singing voice; you should’ve heard him at karaoke. If I didn’t know better I’d just assume he really had committed himself to Emily for the sake of a good shag in the front seat of an automobile!”

Mary threw a baffled look towards John. “It was a duet,” the groom hissed back. “C’mon. You know the song.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and clenched his teeth. “Ah, too many, too many, too many, too many!” he grimaced. “Sorry,” Sherlock said quickly, trying to calm himself for the sake of those watching him with concern written all over their faces. “Too many jokes about John! Now, er… Where was I? Ah, yes - speech!” He clasped his hands together again. “Let’s talk about… murder.”

John sighed and hung his head.

“Sorry, did I say murder? I meant to say marriage - but you know, they’re quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other, and it’s over when one of them’s dead. In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though. Janine!”

The maid of honor snapped her neck up. Sherlock pranced over behind one of the seemingly random reception attendees. “What about this one?” he suggested. “Acceptably hot? More importantly, his girlfriend’s wearing brand-new uncomfortable underwear and hasn’t bothered to pick this thread off the top of his jacket… or point out the grease smudge on the back of his neck. Currently, he’s going home alone. Also he’s a comics and sci-fi geek. They’re always tremendously grateful - really put the hours in.” He chuckled at his own sense of humor. “Geoff, the gents.” He looked towards Lestrade now and jerked his head towards the door. “The loos, now, please.”

“It’s Greg,” the D.I. frowned. His phone beeped then and he reached into his pocket to get it. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s your turn.” Sherlock nodded to the door once more.

Lestrade looked at his newest text message and stiffened. “Yeah, actually, now that you mention it…” He stood and Sherlock put away his own phone.

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone sweet and yet threatening. “Any chance of a - an end date for this speech? Gotta cut the cake.”

“Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once! Vatican Cameos.”

At the codeword John straightened. “What did he say?” Mary asked her husband. “What’s that mean?”

“Battle stations,” John threw back grimly. “Someone’s gonna die.”

“What?!”

“No!” Sherlock yelled and slapped his own cheek. “No! Not you! Not you!” The detective stopped suddenly and pointed at John. “You,” he said in a considerably calmer tone. “It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.”

John stood up now. “What do I do?”

“Well, you’ve already done it. Don’t solve the murder; save the life.” Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath of air and looked back at the guests. “Sorry. Off-piste a bit. Back now. Phew!” He clapped his hands and looked down at the floor. “Let’s play a game. Let’s play murder.” Sherlock lifted his gaze now in an almost creepy way.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson breathed.

Ignoring her, Sherlock went back down the aisle slowly. “Imagine someone’s going to get murdered at a wedding. Who exactly would you pick?”

“I think you’re a popular choice at the moment, dear,” the woman muttered.

“If someone could move Mrs. Hudson’s glass just slightly out of reach, that would be lovely. More importantly, who could you only kill at a wedding?”

To humor herself more than anything else, Emily turned and started take Mrs. Hudson’s glass. Her landlady frowned and yanked it back. Emily held her hands out defensively.

“Most people can kill any old place,” Sherlock rambled on. “As a mental exercise I’ve often planned the murder of friends and colleagues. Now, John I’d poison. Sloppy eater - dead easy. I’ve given him chemicals and compounds; that way, he’d never even noticed. He missed a whole Wednesday once, didn’t have a clue.” Mary threw a concerned look in her new husband’s direction. Next Sherlock looked over at the table that was occupied by his closer acquaintances.

“Emily would be easy enough. She might put up a fight, but it’d hardly be a fair match. We’re talking strangulation of course.” At this Emily held a hand against her own neck and sunk back in her chair. “Scottie would be a similar case, except that he might see it coming soon enough to get away. Perhaps a blunt object to the back of the head would be more fitting.”

“He’s pissed isn’t he?” Tom whispered to Molly. She must have been very tuned in to whatever Sherlock was up to and responded by stabbing a plastic fork into the back of Tom’s hand and causing him to yelp.

“So, once again, who could you only kill here?” Sherlock pressed and started to twirl a finger about in the air. “Clearly it’s a rare opportunity, so it’s someone who doesn’t get out much. Someone for whom a planned social encounter known about months in advance is an exception. Has to be a unique opportunity.” Sherlock was starting to spin in slow circles now. “And since killing someone in public is difficult… killing them in private isn’t an option. Someone who lives in an inaccessible or unknown location, then. Someone private, perhaps, obsessed with personal security. Possibly someone under threat.”

The best man had made his way over to Major Sholto now. He placed a name card down in front of the man and started walking back the other way. “Probably all signed confidentiality agreements. There is another question that remains, however - a big one, a huge one: how would you do it? How would you kill someone in public? “There has to be a way. This has been planned.”

“Mr. Holmes!” a new voice let out excitedly. Sherlock stopped and looked back to see little Archie jumping up and down excitedly from where he was seated. “Mr. Holmes!”

“Oh, hello again, Archie.” Sherlock bent over to face him now. “What’s your theory? Get this right and there’s a headless nun in it for you.”

“The invisible man could do it,” the boy offered.

“The who, the what, the why, the when, the where?”

“The invisible man with the invisible knife. The one who tried to kill the Guardsman.”

Sherlock gasped and straightened again.

“Okay, but can I just remind everyone that my theory about how Stephen was stabbed was entirely pushed aside,” Scottie leaned forward and told the rest of his table quietly.

“Jealous much?” Emily teased.

“What? No! He’s like, a ten-year-old kid!”

Emily shrugged nonchalantly. “A ten-year-old kid who Sherlock seemingly likes better than you.”

Scottie huffed. “Okay, you shut the fuck up or next thing you know I’m gonna be the one acting out Sherlock’s strangulation scenario.”

“Oh, not just planned,” Sherlock was saying half to himself. “Planned and rehearsed…” Sholto was just starting to vacate the room then. Sherlock ran back towards the table at the front of the hall and swiped away someone’s champagne glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a short interlude,” he announced and held up the glass. “The bride and groom!”

“The bride and groom!” everyone else echoed, taking their own glasses and holding them out again.

Sherlock whispered something to John and then took off after Sholto, saying “‘Scuse me, coming through! Consulting!”

John kissed Mary. “Stay here,” he instructed, getting up to chase down Sherlock. “‘Scuse me! Coming through!” John said as well on his way through the crowd and out of the room. “‘Scuse me!”

“Sorry, one more,” Mary, too, got up. “Whoops! So sorry! Thank you!”

The teens turned their heads and watched as Mary picked up her wedding dress and scurried after Sherlock and John.

"We'll just wait here then," Scottie muttered. He took a sip from his water glass.

Emily elbowed her friend and in doing so nearly caused him to spill water all over himself. "Hey, wanna do something reckless and unscripted like catch ourselves a mayfly?"

"Oh. I don’t know, Em, that’s sound like a really FUCKING AMAZING IDEA! Boy, do I ever!" Scottie slammed his cup down with a grin. "He'll even be unsuspecting and unarmed and everything!"

"Perfect, because I already have a plan." The girl leaned forward and whispered a few things to Scottie as Stephen looked on from her other side with a blank face. "Got it?" she asked, leaned away again. Scottie nodded. "Awesomesauce. I'll go draw him away, you give Stephen the lowdown and then wait for my signal."

"Alright. And what signal is that?"

"...I'll have gotten him to leave the room with me."

"Oh."

Emily stood up, patted Scottie's shoulder, and then made a beeline for the wedding photographer. Scottie slid into her unoccupied seat and pressed his hands together. "Alright, Bloody Guardsman. Time to prove your worth. You ready to serve some justice to the dickwad who put you in the hospital?"

"T-The what?!"

Scottie tried not to look annoyed. "The guy who made an attempt on your life. He's here, Emily and I know who it is. You're gonna help us catch him. Do try to keep up, Bloody Guardsman."

Meanwhile, Emily had come up to the wedding's cameraman, who was currently hovering towards the side of the room with his camera still out. “H-Hey, since things seem to be on hold for the time being, do you mind if I talk to you for a moment in the foyer?” she asked.

“Um.” The photographer glanced around the room, which had broken up into a multitude of conversations from table to table, and then back at Emily. “Yeah. I guess. Sure.”

“Okay, I hope this is okay, bringing this up like this, especially when you’re in the middle of another gig,” Emily started to ramble as the two of them were headed past the double doors into the foyer. “But see, some um… girlfriends and I were starting our own clothing line and… Do you strictly do weddings? Because I was wondering if you might consider helping us get some professional photos for the website. We can provide the models and location, basically all you’d have to do is show up with your equipment…” Emily trailed off and glanced over her shoulder, wondering what the hell was taking the boys so long to come to her aid.

“Oh, you know what, I’m pretty booked up right now,” the man told her.

“Really?” In an attempt to stall him as long as possible, Emily took a couple steps closer so that it almost looked as if she were coming onto the older man. “Because I’m pretty close friends with the bride and groom, and they only had good things to say about you and your company.”

“I’m… just the substitute photographer. They called me to fill in last minute.”

“I’m Emily, by the way,” Emily said as seductively as she could and held out her hand.

The Mayfly Man took it slowly. “Jonathan Small. Look, maybe I can give you my card, and we can try to work something out later…?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, sure. That’d be great.”

Jonathan let go and fished a small stack of cards out from his camera case, one of which he offered to Emily. The doors to the dining hall opened then and Scottie and Stephen came in. “Well there you are!” Emily said, looking relieved.

“That’s him?” Stephen asked, staring back at Jonathan. “That’s the guy?”

If Jonathan was surprised to see Stephen there he did an awfully good job of hiding it.

“Yes,” Scottie assured him. “Now quick! Do the thing!”

“Wh-What thing?”

Scottie frowned. “What do you mean ‘what thing’? We literally were just talking about the thing.”

“But, but don’t we need some kind of proof, or--”

“Jesus Christ…” Seeing that Stephen wasn’t about to make the first move, Emily took the initiative on this one and slapped Jonathan with her hand that wasn’t holding his card, which had now become crumpled in her fist. “Alright, enough games! You tried to murder my boyfriend!” she accused.

“W-What the fuck!” Jonathan choked.

“Emily!” Stephen gasped.

“Well it’s true!” she told Stephen from over her shoulder.

“Look, I think there’s been some kind of mistake--”

“There sure has hell was! You’re pissed off at that Sholto guy and thought you could test out your revenge on some poor, uninvolved man and get away with it!” Suddenly Emily threw herself at Jonathan in an attempt to knock him against the wall. She didn’t prove much of a threat against him, however, and Jonathan grabbed at her wrists, holding her back. Emily yelped and proceeded to try and hit at his chest.

Stephen hurried forward now, looking worried. “Okay, hey, maybe we can talk about this--”

“Yeah! Get your fucking girlfriend under control!” Jonathan spat, throwing Emily back. The girl lost her footing and fell the ground.

“HEY!”

Scottie’s eyes widened and he went to try and help Emily up again. “I’m fine,” the girl hissed, struggling to get back to her feet.

Stephen had stepped in now, and slammed his arm into Jonathan’s shoulder, pinning him against the wall like Emily had probably intended to. But Jonathan was a bulkier man than him and had little trouble throwing Stephen off of himself. “You people are insane!” he yelled.

“Says the two-time attempted murderer,” Scottie scoffed.

“I don’t have to deal with this,” huffed Jonathan, adjusting the shoulder strap on his camera case as he made for the exit.

“Wait no, don’t let him get away!” Scottie shouted.

“You had better be right about this,” Stephen warned just as he was beginning to charge after the photographer. The force of the guardsman’s assault sent Jonathan toppling over with a grunt.

“Wait! The wedding photos!” Emily realized and shuffled over to rip open the case while it was still hung around Jonathan’s arm as he lay face-first on the floor. Emily took out the camera backed away from the fray, checking to see if it was intact.

“I’m going to call the police!” Jonathan yelled, hitting Stephen with the back of his shoulder as he started to pick himself up to his knees. Stephen winced a lot more than he probably should’ve, indicating that his previous wound may not have been 100% healed.

“We just need to keep him here until Sherlock arrives!” Scottie promised, throwing himself into the dogpile. “Emily - a little help?”

“Wh… Oh! Right!” Now reassured that John and Mary’s wedding photos still existed, Emily set the camera back down carefully and sprung herself on top of Scottie, Stephen, and Jonathan, who was now thrashing about and letting out a rather impressive stream of curse words.

“OH MY GOD.”

They glanced up to the nearby stairwell, where John, Sherlock, Mary, and Major Sholto now all were.

“Scottie! Emily! What is the meaning of this?!” John barked, scurrying down the stairs to get to them.

“We caught… your Mayfly Man…” Scottie wheezed, struggling to keep Jonathan’s legs pinned down and avoid being kicked in the face.

“How do you know?” Sherlock asked, suddenly at John’s side.

“Look I’d love to explain but can you maybe handcuff him first and make our lives a lot easier?”

John glanced over at Sherlock. “You aren’t seriously going to let them…?”

“And on the off chance that they’re right?”

As soon as it looked like Sherlock and John were helping them, Scottie, Emily, and Stephen rolled off of Jonathan. Stephen, Sherlock, and John then forced him up and Sherlock whipped out a pair of handcuffs, which he used to secure the Mayfly Man to the stair’s railing with.

“Alright, we did what you wanted,” John folded his arms. “Now one of you please explain what the bloody hell is going on at my wedding now!”

“John…” Mary tried to calm her new husband.

“Like I started to say, this is the Mayfly Man you were looking for!” Scottie said with an accusatory finger towards Jonathan. “He had beef with Major Sholto, and in his scheme to assassinate him dated all those women to find his way into the wedding and then practiced the murder out on Private Stephen Bainbridge here.”

“Oh so you do know my name,” Stephen mumbled. He was propping himself up against a nearby end table and taking deep breathes. Noticing this, Emily came over to him and put a concerned hand on his forearm.

“He was posing as the cameraman so that he would be present for the murder and then slip out without any record of him having been there,” Scottie went on.

“I’ve seen this sort of thing before, you know,” Emily agreed. “This one time for my birthday I attended an interactive murder mystery dinner and, get this, the ‘who dunnit’ turned out to be none other that the guy we’d thought was an LA Times journalist writing a review of the show!”

“That’s genius,” Sherlock exclaimed.

Emily nodded vigorously. “Yeah. I thought so. Plus, I even got to be a suspect at one point. Apparently the second victim was found with my photograph in his--”

“No, it’s genius! They’re absolutely right! Where is his camera?”

“Oh.” Emily was a little disheartened that he wasn’t referring to her story. “It’s on the floor over there.”

Sherlock spotted the camera and went to pick it up. He began flipping through the digital pictures on his way back to the others. “There is always a man at a wedding who is not in any photograph but can go anywhere, and even carry an equipment bag around with him if he likes, and you never even see his face. You only ever see… the camera.” Sherlock came up to Jonathan, who was glaring back at him now.

“What are you doing?” the other man seethed. “What is this?”

“Jonathan Small, today’s substitute wedding photographer - known to us as the Mayfly Man. Impressive, that a couple of kids and one of his victims managed to figure it out before me. So how did you know?” he pressed, glancing over at Scottie.

“Uhhh lucky guess?” Emily blinked innocently.

“Well while you were busy prepping for your best man speech, Emily and I were looking into the cases a bit ourselves,” Scottie lied, nudging Emily.

“Oh right, that too,” the girl nodded.

“We suspected they were connected in some way, because what else could explain so many strange and as of yet unsolved cases? But we didn’t really know anything was going to go down today until you guys stormed out of the room and Emily started to tell me about her, uh, dinner detective story, at which point I remembered the cameraman and thought we should go investigate while he was still here!”

“Wait, so you tackled the photographer based off a hunch?” John asked in disbelief.

“And what a lucky hunch it was. As it would seem, Small’s brother was one of the raw recruits killed in that incursion. Jonny sought revenge on Sholto, worked his way through Sholto’s staff, found what he needed, and invitation to a wedding - the one time Sholto would have to be out in public. So, he made his plan and rehearsed the murder, making sure of every murder. Have I about gist of it?”

Scottie smiled. “Nailed it.”

“Brilliant, ruthless, almost certainly a monomaniac,” Sherlock purred. “Though, in fairness, his photographs are actually quite good. Now, where’s our favorite Detective Inspector? Someone fetch him.”

“Oh hey he also owes me ten pounds now,” Scottie remembered.

“It’s not me you should be arresting, Mr. Holmes,” Jonathan grumbled.

“Oh, I don’t do the arresting. I just farm that out.”

“Sholto - he’s the killer, not me. I should have killed him quicker. I shouldn’t have tried to be clever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emily chuckled. “And you would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for us meddling kids and our dumb detective. Believe it or not, we have heard the speech before.”

\---

The newlyweds finished their number, kissed, and the onlooking crowd erupted into vigorous applause and cheering. At the first possible opportunity Emily quickly packed up her instrument and scurried back to Scottie’s side.

“Congrats on not fucking it up too noticeably,” he grinned.

“Don’t be a bleached asshole. The original script didn’t prepare me for a violin duet.”

“It also hadn’t prepared you to go all vigilante on a would-be murderer, and yet that’s exactly what we tried to do today,” Scottie pointed out. “And quite successfully, might I add. In the sense that we caught the guy, even though things didn’t go 100% according to plan.”

Emily smirked. “This is true. Mystery Twins?”

“Mystery Twins,” Scottie mused, fist bumping his best friend.

The room grew quiet again as Sherlock began his second speech of the day: “Ladies and gentlemen, just er, one last thing before the evening begins properly. Apologies for earlier. A crisis arose and was dealt with.” The man paused, drawing in a breath. “More importantly, however, today we saw two people make vows. I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John… Whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always… for the three of you.” He stopped again upon realizing what he’d just said. Scottie and Emily smiled excitedly from a little ways away.

“Er, I’m sorry, I mean, I mean two of you,” Sherlock said quickly. “All two of you. Both of you, in fact. I’ve just miscounted.” He took a sharp breath. “Anyway, it’s time for dancing. Play the music again, please, thank you.” Sherlock flailed an arm and then hopped down awkwardly. “Dancing, please! Very good!”

The DJ put on a track and slowly but surely the party resumed. “Aw yiss, this is my jam,” Scottie laughed, excitedly bobbing along to Oh, What a Night as he made to join in on Sherlock breaking the news of Mary’s pregnancy to her and her new husband. But Emily stuck out an arm, blocking him.

“Let them have this.”

Scottie pouted. “And do what instead? Dance with you, or something stupid like that? Won’t Stephen get jealous?”

Before Emily had a chance to answer she felt a buzz come from her cell phone. She pulled it out from where it had been concealed in her bra and Scottie made a face. “Tempting offer,” she muttered, glancing down at the phone, “but I think I’m going to step outside and take this instead.”

“In that case I’ll come with and swoop in to cheer Sherlock up when he makes his exit.”

“Good plan.” Emily squeezed through a few clusters of people and stepped into the foyer just as she answered. “Hello?”

Almost immediately the girl stopped dead in her tracks and Scottie bumped his nose into her back. He jumped back a step and rubbed at his nose unhappily. “Thanks for the traffic collision. I certainly hope you don’t still drive like you walk.”

But Emily didn’t appear to have heard him. “Th-That’s impossible…” she whispered into the receiver.

“What the hell? Who is it? The only people who ever even call you in this universe are all back in the ballroom.” Scottie pulled her wrist down, trying to see the caller ID, but the number was blocked. Instead Emily put the device on speakerphone so that he could hear as well. And, of course, recognize the voice within seconds.

“I haven’t forgotten about what happened two years ago,” the man on the other line was saying. “Everyone else seems to have, but then again, you’re like everyone else, are you? I understand that now.” Neither Scottie nor Emily answered. Instead they exchanged slightly baffled looks.

“What’s the matter, Princess?” Moriarty went on. “Could it be for once you and Sherlock Jr. didn’t see something coming?”

\---

“So, are we going to talk about this, or...?”

“About what?” Scottie asked passively. The two of them had just stepped outside of the venue. It was dark out now. Scottie continued forward a ways, shoes clicking on the pavement, without looking back at his friend.

Emily grabbed at his arm, implying that he should be taking this just as seriously as she did (which he clearly did not). “About Moriarty. More specifically, the fact that he’s still in the picture!”

“But we technically already knew that,” the boy pointed out.

“This is different and you know it. He remembers us, Scottie - or at least says he does. It just doesn’t add up. Something changed and it’s very possibly our fault.”

Scottie sighed. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t like not knowing any more than you do, but we haven’t seen season four yet, so it’s not like we have any leg up in this situation. I can’t exactly track Moriarty down and interrogate him. So rather than getting my panties all tied up in a knot over it like you have, why shouldn’t I push it to the back of my mind palace until the end of His Last Vow, when it’s actually relevant?”

“You’re assuming the episode isn’t going to change because of this… Which, might I remind you, is pretty much exactly what happened during the Fall.” Emily sighed and folded her arms. "Whatever. You're right. Let's just forget about the whole thing and hope nothing happens while John's on his honeymoon."

Scottie took off his suit jacket and hung it around his arm, but otherwise said nothing.

“God, why are you acting so weird about this!” Emily let out, unable to pretend to be calm like he seemed to be. She looked back and spotted Sherlock starting to come out the door. “Well, there’s your ride home,” she grumbled. “I’m going back inside.”

Without saying goodbye to Scottie, Emily passed by Sherlock with a quick “hey” on her way. Back in the ballroom the girl was almost immediately joined by Stephen Bainbridge, who popped up behind her and made her jump a little.

“I thought you’d left already,” the man said.

“Me? Leave a party early? Please.” Emily smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just had to take an urgent call really fast.”

“Urgent?” Stephen echoed. “Is everything alright?”

 

“What? Oh! Yeah. Yeah, um. Everything’s… peachy. Wanna dance?”

Stephen grinned. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.” He held out a hand to Emily, which she took, and he guided the girl further onto the dance floor.

Neither party was particularly good at dancing, but Scottie had taught Emily the gist of slow dancing and she and Stephen held onto one another and bobbed around in time with the rest of the guests, making light conversation all the while.

“Seriously?” Stephen was saying in disbelief. “Have you ever done a single boring, ordinary thing in your life? Just one? Went for a walk in the park, visited a museum…”

“I actually did go to a museum that one time,” Emily told him.

“I knew it!”

“It was close to midnight and I was being shot at by an assassin.”

“...oh.”

Emily smiled a little, looking away. “Yeah. That, um… So that happened.”

“So far you’ve told me you were present at the time of an explosion, jumped off the roof of a hospital, and now apparently you’ve gotten caught up in the middle of a shootout! How are you even still alive?”

“Catlike reflexes?” Emily guessed. “Or nine lives, perhaps. Something to do with felines.”

Stephen stared back at the girl with what looked like a strange mixture of concern and admiration. “You’re incredible,” the man finally concluded. “Completely insane. But also incredible.”

“Thanks… I think?”

Without realizing it, the two of them had stopped dancing. There was a particularly long pause that followed before Stephen leaned forward and planting a kiss on Emily’s lips. Surprised by the gesture, Emily pulled back upon impact.

“I’m sorry!” Stephen quickly apologized.

“N-No, that’s.. That’s okay, I just didn’t…”

Words continued to pour out of Stephen’s mouth: “It’s just that I know this is only our second real date, and it’s not really a proper date, except that it is because I’m technically your date to the wedding and I was picking up mixed signals and--”

More to get him to shut up than anything else, Emily now kissed Stephen. Once she’d finished and gone back off of her tiptoes, Emily bit at her lower lip and looked up at Stephen, who was grinning back at her.

Emily didn’t go back to Baker Street that night. Stephen was entirely against the idea of her taking a taxi by herself at two in the morning, and instead of dropping her off himself they both thought it easier that she just spend the night in his small flat. After changing out of her fancy dress and into one of Stephen’s shirts, which was a tad too big for her and fit more like a nightgown, Emily awkwardly crawled into the same bed as Stephen.

But she couldn’t sleep. The idea of Moriarty being out there somewhere, still knowing who she was and that they had been through together kept her wide awake for an hour or so longer, staring up at the ceiling with Stephen’s arm around her.


	10. Their Last Derp

Thankfully nothing did happen (as far as they knew) during the Watsons' honeymoon. In their absence Sherlock started dating Janine, which was weird for everyone involved, but Scottie and Emily got along with her well enough when they were all in the same room. But much to Scottie's disappointment, he ended up spending most of his time either alone or online with friends, as Emily started going off with Stephen more and more frequently.

On one such day the girl came running into 221B after having spent yet another night at Stephen's. "Scottie Scottie Scottie!" she was shouting. "I found a kink in the system!"

"A what in the what?" he asked, looking up from his computer with only the slightest of interests.

Emily shoved something flat and rectangular at Scottie just before swooping onto the couch next to him. He relocated his laptop to the coffee table and held the thing a bit further from his face with one hand, putting on his glasses with the other.

"This is a DVD of the fourth Harry Potter," the boy finally deduced.

"So you know how I was with Stephen Bainbridge last night, right?"

"Now that you mention it, I do vaguely recall you dating a minor fictional character..."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Okay, well, you also know how he's played by Alfred Enoch in the real world, right?"

"Sure."

"And that fellow also played Dean Thomas in Harry Potter."

"Your point...?"

"Well, we were having a Harry Potter movie marathon at his place and get this: Dean Thomas wasn't played by Alfred Enoch anymore. Instead it was some other mildly attractive black dude I've never heard of before! Oh hi Mycroft," the girl sang just as she spotted Sherlock's older brother coming into the room from the kitchen. "I didn't know you were visiting."

"And I wasn’t aware that you were familiar with my person," the man grunted on his way out. Emily merely gave an indifferent shrug.

Scottie set down the DVD and continued their previous train of thought. "I suppose that makes sense in the same way that the real Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch don't exist in this universe.." He paused to give Emily an accusatory look. "Wait. Are you implying that you knowingly watched Harry Potter with the Bloody Guardsman with the sole intention of pointing out what he'd assume was his doppelgänger?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny this," Emily said guiltily.

"For fuck's sake, Em! I thought we decided it was best to go back to trying not to break the fourth wall?”

"Oh, don't act all high and mighty," the girl huffed. "I've actually lost track of how many times I covered for your ass after you accidentally made a reference to one of their actors."

"Mr. Holmes?" a familiar voice called out from the kitchen. There was then some slamming of drawers followed by a muffled shout from downstairs.

Emily raised an eyebrow and whipped her head around at Scottie. "Was that... Anderson?"

Ignoring her question, Scottie stood up and handed the movie back to Emily. "Even so, they had no idea who I was referring to out of context. Now, were I to go up to Sherlock like 'Hey, remember your dog Redbeard? Yeah, that was pretty heartbreaking, wasn't it? And by the way, you were such an adorable kid...' That would be a big mistake."

"Uh, Scottie..."

Emily tugged at Scottie's pants pocket and nodded her head to the side. The boy shifted his eyes up to see Sherlock now hovering in the doorway with furrowed brows.

"...AND THAT'S WHY I DIDN'T LIKE THE ENDING TO THE FAULT IN OUR STARS," he said quickly and at twice the volume as before.

Emily smiled and gave Sherlock a little wave, to which the detective narrowed his eyes even more and avoided passing her and Scottie by entering the flat through the side door to the kitchen. Emily then noticed that he had John and Mycroft in tow.

"Oh!" Emily gasped. She jumped to her feet and tossed the DVD behind her. "Welcome back!"

"Not now," John said sternly, holding up a hand. Emily frowned at this.

"Anderson," Sherlock barked angrily from the other room.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," the second voice responded. "It's for your own good."

Emily's jaw dropped and she shoved Scottie's arm. "Oh my God, His Last Vow is starting and you never said anything! I was almost not even here!"

"You distracted me with all this my-boyfriend-the-Bloody-fucking-Guardsman drama!" Scottie shot back. "Not to mention you were kind of MIA that whole time."

"You should have called as soon as you realized!" The girl let out an exasperated sigh and stormed towards the kitchen. She stopped halfway there, only just spotting an unfamiliar face seated in Sherlock's armchair.

"You see but you do not observe," Scottie cooed, suddenly right behind her again.

"Fuck you."

Sherlock suddenly pushed between the two of them. The stranger slammed his book shut and scurried away. His spot was immediately taken by Sherlock, who flipped his hood up like a rebellious teen being pissy around his parents.

"You said he'd be taller," someone else said from the kitchen.

"Some members of your little fanclub," Mycroft informed him. "Do be polite. They're entirely trustworthy, and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat."

As stubborn as ever, Sherlock curled up sideways in his chair. Scottie and Emily exchanged glances as Mycroft continued.

"You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can't afford a drug habit."

Sherlock snapped his eyes open indignantly. "I do not have a drug habit."

"Hey, what's happened to my chair?" John asked distractedly.

"It was blocking my view to the kitchen."

John turned to the kids. “I don’t suppose you helped him move it out, did you?”

“It… fit nicely in our significantly less cluttered flat for the time being?” offered Scottie.

John shot Mycroft and incredulous look. “Well. It’s good to be missed!”

“Well, you were gone. I saw an opportunity.”

“To put us to work,” Emily grumbled half to herself.

“No. You saw the kitchen.”

Mycroft turned to Anderson now. "What have you found so far? Clearly nothing."

"There's nothing to find," growled Sherlock.

"Your bedroom door is shut," his brother went on, crossing from the kitchen into the hallway behind it. "You haven't been home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?"

Mycroft reached for the doorknob to Sherlock's room just as Sherlock jolted upright. "Okay, stop! Just stop. Point made."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John exhaled.

"Have to phone our parents, of course, in Oklahoma. Won't be the first time that your substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line-dancing. Although I ought to say, I didn't take you for the kind of man to get back into such things now with kids around. I worry that they ought to be spending their days in the company of someone more... responsible."

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and stood up, coming closer to his brother. "This is not what you think," he hissed. "This is for a case!"

"What case could possibly justify this?"

"Magnussen." Mycroft's slight smile dropped upon hearing this name and he seemed to tense up. "Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Sherlock told him, his face dead serious.

"Oh God not Magnussen," Scottie whined. "What a fucking creep!"

"Honestly, I'd take Moriarty over him any day," agreed Emily. "He's like the Dolores Umbridge of BBC London. Voldemort just seems like such a chill dude in comparison."

Mycroft's nostrils flared. “What did you tell them?” he hissed.

“What did I tell them?” Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft turned to the guests in the room now. “That name you think you may have just heard - you were mistaken. If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you, on behalf of the British security services, that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don’t reply; just look frightened and scuttle.” Anderson and the other men did look frightened at this and scuttle out. “I hope I don’t have to threaten you as well,” Mycroft added to Scottie and Emily as he gestured to the door with one hand.

Scottie wrinkled his nose. “I think we’d both find that embarrassing.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “I really don’t.”

Sherlock looked a little annoyed at his brother but told Scottie and Emily to go to their room regardless.

“Hey now, if you have something to say to Sherlock then you can say it in front of us,” Emily argued.

“Also we probably know more about Magnussen than Sherlock does at this point anyway,” shrugged Scottie. “Just saying.”

Emily nodded. “This is true.”

“Do you think that this is a game?” Mycroft seethed, now reaching forward and pulling Scottie by his shirt collar so that the boy was just nearly lifted off of the ground. Scottie’s eyes widened in surprise at the assault and he tensed up.

“H-Hey! Put him down, you bully! Only I get to yank Scottie around like that!” Emily came forward and started to pull at the arm that Mycroft was using to carry his umbrella and not Scottie. The elder Holmes brother released the boy. Jerking away first, Mycroft swung his umbrella out to the side and smacked Emily across the head with the object. With a cry of pain the girl stumbled towards the wall, which she grabbed onto with both arms to keep from falling over.

“OI!” barked John.

A flash of anger came into Sherlock’s eyes and suddenly the detective was upon his brother. He wound Mycroft’s arm up behind his back and slammed him face-first against the wall just as Emily ducked out of the way. Mycroft winced and let his umbrella drop.

“Brother mine, don’t appal me when I’m high,” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

John took a deep breath and came up to the display, saying softly yet firmly, “Mycroft, don’t say another word. Just go. He could snap you in two, and after that little display I am slightly worried that he might.” Looking ten different kinds of disgruntled, Mycroft pushed himself free and Sherlock left the room. “Don’t speak; just leave,” John pressed.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment before pointing behind John. The doctor turned to see Scottie had picked up the umbrella and was wielding it like a sword. John yanked the thing away and handed it back to Mycroft, who snatched it and left through the door between the flat’s kitchen and landing. John went into the living room.

“Are you… okay?” Scottie asked his friend cautiously.

“I don’t…” Emily came closer and pointed to where the umbrella had struck her cheek. It didn’t look bruised or anything, but it was still blotchy and pink. “Is it bad?” she asked, sounding worried.

“You’re fine,” Scottie assured her. “I’ll get you an ice pack if you think that’ll help.”

He proceeded to fill a ziplock with a few pieces of ice from the freezer and wrapped it with a cloth napkin before handing it to Emily. She paused to pull out one ice cube and popped it into her mouth before putting the ice pack against her face. Scottie rolled his eyes.

“Ugh, who does Mycroft think he is anyway?” the boy grumbled. “I hate that guy.”

“Remember when you used to be attracted to him?”

“Well, yeah, but that was before I realized what a colossal douchecanoe he was!”

Sherlock and John had re-entered the kitchen now and passed the two of them. “What sort of case?” John was asking.

“Too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in,” replied Sherlock.

“You trying to put me off?”

“God, no.” Sherlock touched his hand to the bathroom doorknob, looking back with a sly smile. “Trying to recruit you. And stay out of my bedroom,” the detective added as he disappeared into his bathroom and shut the door. John didn’t even wait a courtesy .5 seconds before immediately going to Sherlock's bedroom to investigate. But he hadn’t even the chance to intrude when the door opened and Janine was standing there.

“Oh, John. Hi.” Laughing, the woman pulled the shirt she was wearing as a dress a bit lower and came forward. “How are you?”

“Janine?” John asked in disbelief.

“Sorry. Not dressed. Has everybody gone? I heard shouting.”

“Yes, they’re gone.” John stepped aside to let her into the kitchen.

Scottie waved at the guest. “Morning, Janine.”

“Good morning to you, too. Well… afternoon. And you didn’t come home again last night,” Janine said to Emily.

“Well. Neither did you. Technically."

“Oh, Emmy dear, what’s happened to your face?” Janine asked, suddenly looking worried. She came over to Emily and moved the ice pack away to get a better look at the girl’s cheek.

“I’m fine,” Emily promised and pressed the ice pack closer.

“Did that Stephen boy do this to you?”

“What? No! No, it was… another boy. Sherlock’s brother, to be exact.”

“Mike?” Janine frowned. “Is that what the argument was about?”

“Mike?” echoed John.

“Mike, yeah. They’re always fighting. Didn’t realize he was one for hitting children, however…”

“...Mycroft.”

“Do people actually call him that?” Janine looked surprised.

“Yeah?”

“Huh. Oh, could you be a love and put some coffee on?”

John blinked. “Sure. Right. Yeah.”

“Thanks,” Janine smiled and started back the way she’d come. The woman paused to put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Ooh, how’s Mary? How’s married life?”

“She’s fine,” John told her. “We’re both fine. Yeah.” The doctor went towards the cupboard to get to work on that coffee request.

“Oh, it’s over there now,” Janine said with a point. “Where’s Sherl?”

“Sherl!” John practically choked. He cracked a smile and turned back towards her. “He’s just having a bath. I’m sure he’ll be out in a minute.”

“Oh, like he ever is!”

“Yeah.”

Janine rapped on the bathroom door. “Morning! Room for a little one?” She let herself in and a series of muffled giggling followed. John sort of froze where he stood with a blank face.

“You’re not the only one who thinks it’s weird,” Scottie promised him.

Emily set the ice pack down on the countertop. “Oh! John, you never told us about your honeymoon!”

The three of them then moved into the living room, where they piled onto the couch together and John began recounting the time he’d spent over the last month with his wife. Not all that long later Sherlock came in, having changed into his usual wardrobe and in the middle of slipping on his jacket.

“So, it’s just a guess but you’ve probably got some questions,” the consulting detective started.

“Yeah,” John looked up. “One or two, pretty much.”

“Naturally.” Sherlock smiled and had a seat.

“You have a girlfriend?”

“Yes, I have. Now, Magnussen: Magnussen is like a shark - it’s the only way I can describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, John? Stood up close to the glass? Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes… That’s what he is. I’ve dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“Yes, you have,” John said slowly.

“Sorry. What?”

“You have a girlfriend.”

Sherlock blinked. “What? Yes! Yes, I’m going out with Janine. I thought that was fairly obvious.”

“Yes. Well… yes.” John cleared his throat loudly. “But I mean you, you, you… are in a relationship?”

“Yes. I am.”

“You and Janine?”

“Mm, yes. Me and Janine.”

“Sherlock and Janine, Sherline, if you will,” Emily shrugged. “It’s a thing.”

John tilted his head. “Care to elaborate?”

Sherlock inhaled dramatically as he glanced up at the ceiling. He puffed out his cheeks and then released the breath. “Well, we’re in a good place. It’s um… very affirming.” He smiled at John in a way that almost didn’t look real and John pointed back at him.

“You got that from a book,” the other man accused.

“Everyone got that from a book.”

Janine came into the room then. She, too, had changed by this point. “Okay, you two bad boys, behave yourselves,” she sang on her way over to the arm of Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock reached over and wrapped an arm around the woman, who leaned into him. “And you, Sherl - you’re gonna have to tell me where you were last night.”

“Man, it’s like no one but me was in their own bed last night,” mumbled Scottie as he sunk lower into the couch.

“Working,” Sherlock answered.

“Working. Of course. I’m the only one who really knows what you’re like, remember?”

“Don’t you go letting on,” Sherlock told her softly. The man ran a playful finger down the woman’s nose and then let his hand settle over her arm as they stared deeply into one another’s eyes. John grinned an altogether too-tense grin.

“I just might, actually,” Janine teased. Suddenly she pulled her gaze up towards John. “I haven’t told Mary about this. I kind of wanted to surprise her. But we should have you two over for dinner really soon!”

“Yeah!” Sherlock agreed.

“My place, though - not the scuzz-dump!” She punched Sherlock’s arm affectionately and they both laughed. “Oh, and of course you two will be there,” she added towards Scottie and Emily. “Stephen can come too. It can be a couples’ night!”

Scottie made a bit of a growling noise in the back of his throat at this but withheld comment.

“Great, yeah!” John exhaled. “Dinner! Yeah.”

Janine got up again. “Oh, I’d better dash. It was brilliant to see you!”

“You too,” John answered, also standing as if it were instinctual.

Sherlock proceeded to escort Janine out and held the door open for her. “Have a lovely day. Call me later.”

Janine pursed her lips into a smirk. “I might do. I might call you. Unless I meet someone prettier.” The two of them kissed as John stared on in what could really only be described as slight horror. Even Scottie and Emily had difficulty watching without making a face. “Solve me a crime, Sherlock Holmes,” Janine pulled away but lingered with her face close enough so that their noses were still touching. She came out of the embrace ever so slowly and disappeared out the door, which Sherlock shut. Almost immediately after having done so the detective snapped back into his old self.

“You know Magnussen as a newspaper owner, but he’s so much more than that,” the man said, striding into the center of the room. “He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power.” Sherlock came over to his laptop, which was sitting on the table, and opened it up as he sat down. “I’m not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail, and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name” - Sherlock spun the computer around so that it faced in the direction of the others - “is Appledore.”

But not one of them had moved from the couch or made any attempt to get a closer look at what he was attempting to show them on the screen.

“Dinner,” John let out.

Sherlock didn’t seem to follow this comment. “Sorry, what, dinner?”

“Me and Mary. Coming for dinner, with… wine and… sitting.”

The detective was quiet for several seconds before: “Seriously? I’ve just told you that the Western world is run from this house, and you want to talk about dinner?”

Emily’s eyes lit up eagerly. “Oh oh! Can I help cook?”

“Absolutely not,” all other voices in the room answered.

John leaned forward in his seat. “Fine. Talk about the house.”

Sherlock sighed and turned his laptop back. “It is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world. The Alexandrian Library of secrets and scandals, and none of it is on a computer. He’s smart: computers can be hacked. It’s all on hard copy in vaults underneath that house.” John had come over now and leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder to see. Sherlock pointed at a rotating blueprint on the screen. “And as long as it is, the personal freedom of anyone you’ve ever met is a fantasy.”

There was a knock and an “ooh-ooh!” and suddenly Mrs. Hudson was in the flat. “Oh, that was the doorbell,” the landlady told them. “Couldn’t you hear it?”

“It’s in the fridge,” Sherlock shrugged. “It kept ringing.”

“Oh, that’s not a fault, Sherlock!”

“Who is it?” asked John.

Without answering Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs. “That’ll be him,” Sherlock muttered. The man shut his computer and went closer to the fireplace at the end of the room, followed closely by John.

“Please don’t do anything particularly stupid,” Emily suddenly requested of Scottie, her voice dangerously low.

“W-What’s that supposed to mean?” the boy scoffed.

“I don’t know. Just… I have the feeling there’s a very good chance of Magnussen doing something that pisses you off and I don’t want anyone to get killed because of it.”

In almost no time at all three strangers had barged into the room. They were clad in suits and wearing earpieces, giving the kids an uneasy feeling of déjà vu. Sherlock uncrossed his arms and held them out to the side. “Oh, go ahead.”

The first man came forward and began frisking him. A second approached John. “Sir?”

John looked from Sherlock to this other man. “Can I have a moment?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Sherlock assured them.

The third and final man in Magnussen’s entourage went to the couch and politely asked the kids to stand up. Emily raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? What makes you think Sherlock would trust either of us to carry a concealed weapon?”

But he asked again and they cooperated - not, however, without an exasperated sigh first.

“Okay, I…” John pointed towards a knife that he’d been keeping in his jacket pocket. “That. And…” The man frisking him straightened, now holding a tire lever that he had retrieved from John’s jeans. “Doesn’t mean I’m not pleased to see you,” John said weakly.

“I can vouch for this man,” Sherlock said. “He’s a doctor. If you know who I am, then you know who he is… don’t you, Mr. Magnussen?”

As the detective said this Magnussen himself stepped into the flat and stopped just past the door frame. Each of the other three men backed up so that they were positioned at the sides of the people they’d just been searching.

“I understood we were meeting at your office,” proceeded Sherlock.

Magnussen surveyed the room for a moment. “This is my office,” he finally spoke, his voice light and confident. He took several more steps inside and then stopped again, letting his eyes fall on Scottie. A file seemed to have opened next to the boy’s face then that only Magnussen could see:

SCOTTIE LEWIS

AMATEUR DETECTIVE  
FORMER STUDENT  
ACCESS TO CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION  
PORN PREFERENCE: OLDER MEN  
FINANCES: NONE  
STATUS: UNCERTAIN

PRESSURE POINT: > ANXIETY DISORDER  
GENDER DYSPHORIA (SEE FILE)  
FAMILY (NO FILE FOUND)  
MISTREATMENT OF ANIMALS

Magnussen shifted his gaze a little to the left.

EMILY MARIE CLAUS

FORMER STUDENT  
ACCESS TO CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION  
FINANCES: NONE  
STATUS: UNCERTAIN

PRESSURE POINT: > SISTER (NO FILE FOUND)  
SCOTTIE LEWIS (SEE FILE)

With a satisfied nod he took another step and turned to face Sherlock and John, whose read:

JOHN HAMISH WATSON

AFGHANISTAN VETERAN (SEE FILE)  
G.P. (SEE FILE)  
PORN PREFERENCE: NORMAL  
FINANCES: 10% DEBT (SEE FILE)  
STATUS: UNIMPORTANT

PRESSURE POINT: > HARRY WATSON (SISTER) ALCOHOLIC  
MARY MORSTAN (WIFE)

“Well, it is now,” Magnussen shrugged. He went up to the dining table and picked up a newspaper off of it, which he took back to the couch, where Scottie and Emily had shuffled a good couple of feet away from now.

“Mr. Magnussen,” Sherlock began again, “I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband’s letters. Some time ago you… put pressure on her concerning those letters.” Magnussen shifted his gaze up from the paper. “She would like those letters back.”

SHERLOCK HOLMES

CONSULTING DETECTIVE  
PORN PREFERENCE: NORMAL  
FINANCES: UNKNOWN  
BROTHER: MYCROFT HOLMES  
M.I.6 (SEE FILE)  
OFFICIALLY DECEASED 2011-2013

PRESSURE POINT: > IRENE ADLER (SEE FILE)  
JIM MORIARTY (SEE FILE)  
REDBEARD (SEE FILE)  
HOUNDS OF THE BASKERVILLE  
OPIUM  
JOHN WATSON

“Obviously the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind…” Sherlock trailed off, seeming to notice that Magnussen wasn’t really listening. The other man snorted. Sherlock exhaled. “Something I said?”

“No, no. I-I was reading.” Magnussen adjusted his glasses. “There’s rather a lot. Redbeard…”

Sherlock opened his mouth, shut it again and then glanced over to Scottie, who had pursed his lips and was staring determinedly down at the floor.

Magnussen shook his head. “Sorry. S-Sorry. You were probably talking?”

“I…” Sherlock was quiet for a bit and then cleared his throat. “I was trying to explain that I’ve been asked to act on behalf of…”

“Bathroom?” Magnussen asked, addressing the man beside John.

“Along from the kitchen, sir,” he was told with a nod to the man’s right.

“Okay.”

“I’ve been asked to negotiate the return of those letters,” Sherlock tried again firmly. Magnussen removed his glasses and looked distractedly towards the window. “I’m aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents…”

“Is it like the rest of the flat?” Magnussen went right on ignoring Sherlock.

“Sir?”

“The bathroom?”

“Er, yes, sir.”

“Maybe not, then.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?”

Magnussen met his eyes only temporarily and then went right back to looking out the window. “Lady Elizabeth Smallwood,” he mused. “I like her.” Magnussen looked back again and popped his lips several times.

“Mr. Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?”

“She’s English, with a spine.” Magnussen stuck out his leg and used it to push the coffee table out of his way. He then stood and came towards the fireplace. Scottie moved slightly, his hands balled in tight fists. Noticing, Emily grabbed at his wrist and their eyes met. “Best thing about the English…” Magnussen cooed, “you’re so domesticated. All standing around, apologizing.” He nodded to Sherlock and then came between him and John, stopping in front of the fireplace now. “Keeping your little heads down…” Magnussen hummed. “You can do what you like here. No one’s ever going to stop you.” The man started to unzip his pants and then went right on ahead urinating into the fireplace.

Scottie and Emily both shuddered. John half turned to see for himself, as if having to confirm that this was actually what was happening. Sherlock, on the other hand, kept his head straight forward with such intensity that it was almost a surprise he wasn’t burning a hole through the wallpaper. Suddenly Scottie tore out of Emily’s grasp and came towards Magnussen, but he stopped in the center of the room when all three bodyguards took a step closer to him with their hands out as if preparing to grab him.

“A nation of herbivores. I’ve interests all over the world but, er, everything starts in England. If it works here… I’ll try it in a real country.” Having finished his business, Magnussen looked in the mirror for a couple seconds and then turned to see Scottie standing in front of him with both middle fingers held up and an expression that was so sour it couldn’t even be taken seriously.

Magnussen was blank-faced for just a moment and then cracked a smile. The guard beside John held out a pack of wet wipes, and Magnussen took one. “American,” he mused and started to wipe at his fingers. “See what I mean? More often mistake stupidity for bravery, but… Well, look where it’s gotten them in comparison.”

Magnussen took several steps forward, causing Scottie to back up a bit more, but he kept his fingers up defiantly all the while, even bouncing them one after the other as he backtracked.

“Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need those letters, so I’m keeping them,” Magnussen said, turning back to face Sherlock. He let go of his wipe, letting it flutter to the floor. “Goodbye.” The man started to leave, but he stopped to slip his hand into a pocket and reveal the edge of a packet. “Anyway… they’re funny.” With a smirk Magnussen exited the room and the security guards followed him out.

“Jesus!” John finally exploded. Emily widened her eyes, took in a deep breath and threw herself back down on the couch as she exhaled.

“Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?” Sherlock asked, disturbingly calm after the fact.

“Wh… There was a moment that kind of stuck in the mind, yeah.” John gestured toward the fireplace, but Sherlock had started to smile and seemed to not realize what he was referring to.

“Exactly,” Sherlock nodded distractedly. “When he showed us the letters.”

John made a face. “Okay?”

“So he’s brought the letters to London - so no matter what he says, he’s ready to make a deal. Now, Magnussen only makes a deal once he’s established a person’s weaknesses. The pressure point, he calls it.” Sherlock retrieved his coat from where he’d hung it over the dining room chair and pulled an arm through. “So, clearly he believes I’m a drug addict and no serious threat.” Coat on all the way now, the detective glanced at the window and then spun around with a thrilled gesture towards it. “And, of course, because he’s in town tonight, the letters will be in his safe in his London office while he’s out to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven ‘til ten.”

“How… How do you know his schedule?” John questioned.

“Because he’s the creepy stalker type?” offered Scottie, coming up to Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed an entire hand over Scottie’s face as a means of shushing him. “Because I do. Right. I’ll... Did you just lick me?!” the detective gasped, jerking away. Sherlock frowned and took a step back as he wiped the palm of his hand off on the front of his jacket. “Why would…? No. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. John, would you mind looking after the kids until tonight?” he asked, looking towards the other man again.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve got some shopping to do.”

“That’s nice. Don’t see what it has to do with me sticking around here.”

“Well you won’t have to stay here. Take them for a walk or something. Get ice cream. I don’t know.” Sherlock passed John and started towards the stairs.

John pursed his lips. “Dare I ask what’s tonight?” he called after Sherlock.

“I’ll text instructions,” Sherlock said, already starting downstairs.

“Yeah, I’ll text you if I’m available.”

“You are! I checked!”

John took a deep breath and turned towards Scottie and Emily. “Well we don’t actually need a babysitter and haven’t for quite a few years, actually,” the girl started, “but I wouldn’t necessarily say no to an ice cream party. Your treat?”

John shot her a look and then followed after Sherlock downstairs.

\---

That evening Sherlock and John had taken off, leaving Scottie and Emily home alone once again. John had inevitably caved earlier that day and took them to an ice cream parlor, but that didn’t stop Emily from helping herself to an unguarded carton of Ben and Jerry’s now.

Sitting sideways so that her legs stuck up and hung over the top of Sherlock’s armchair, Emily licked at her spoon distractedly. “You know what’s depressing?”

“Sherlock could be getting shot at by Mary in this very moment and there’s literally nothing we can do about it?” Scottie asked. He was currently lying sprawled out face-down in the middle of the floor.

“Well that too. But I was gonna suggest knowing that Gladstone’s now dead again, what with the balance of the world resetting and everything.”

Scottie lifted himself to his hands and knees at this and glared at Emily upside-down. “In what sick universe did you think that comment was okay?”

“I did say that it was depressing,” the girl shrugged.

Scottie sat up the rest of the way and spun around to face her properly. “Has anyone ever told you you have a terrible tactic for dealing with other people’s pain? I.e. when someone stubs their toe, stomping on their other foot doesn’t, in fact, take away from the pain of the first injury. Now they just have two feet that are hurting.”

“Okay but I did that one time--”

“False! You do that all the time!”

“Should I have called a tow truck instead?”

The flat went quiet for a moment and then Emily chuckled at her own bad pun.

“I will punch you in the boob,” threatened Scottie.

“See? I have effectively redirected your depressing worrying into general annoyance towards me. Mission accomplished.” Emily stuck the spoon back in her mouth in order to close the now empty ice cream carton and then set both down on the floor past her head.

“You’re a shit.”

“I’m your favorite shit.”

Scottie let out a low moan and flopped backwards, now staring up at the ceiling. “Fine. Your way. Keep distracting me.”

“With what…?”

“I don’t know, anything. How we first met.”

Emily rolled around in Sherlock’s armchair so that she was now sideways in it rather than upside-down. “Online or in person?” she asked.

“Do you even remember us meeting online?”

“Vaguely,” Emily shrugged. “Not specifics, I mean. It was summer. I was going into my sophomore year. We were playing that Death Note themed version of Mafia on Neopets. I’d say we’ve come a long way, if you ask me.”

Scottie snorted. “Yeah. We went from nerds dreaming about fictional worlds to nerds living in one.”

“I’m glad And Another Note has stayed together this long. Even though we’re… hardly online with them while here.”

“Remember when you hit me in the face with a pillow?” Scottie smiled, closing his eyes.

Emily tilted her head. “Which time?”

“All those years ago, in that shitty hotel. We never did figure out how we ended up there in the first place, did we?”

“I… No, I guess not. I don’t think Blaise had anything to do with that one, so… the case remains unsolved. Unfortunately. Didn’t your laptop used to have that weird Supernatural-looking thing carved into it?”

Scottie nodded. “Used to. It disappeared when we went back.”

“Hm.” Emily clicked her tongue in her mouth and then the room went quiet. The girl glanced over towards Scottie and then turned away again. “I’m glad things turned out the way they did,” she finally muttered. “We’ve been through so much together and… Well, if someone approached me just a few years before and said I was about to embark on this crazy action-packed adventure with my future platonic soul mate I probably would’ve called them crazy. But… here we are.”

“Mm. We were just kids back then, weren’t we?”

“Mm-hm. We were fifteen when we first met. And then sixteen when we came here.”

“And now we’re both nineteen! And on the verge on twenty, too! Oh my God, we were such babies! And we thought we were all grown up and mature at the time!”

Emily straightened and spun into the chair the normal way now. “H-Hang on!” she exclaimed. “We were sixteen when we first appeared in London, right?”

“Yes?”

“But then we realized that we’d skipped from the summer to like January or something, which was why when it was September we said we were actually turning eighteen.”

“Okay…?”

“But then when Blaise and the Doctor took us back home it was just where we left off and we were suddenly sixteen again. Theoretically. I mean, we don’t look any different, so who can say?”

Scottie sighed. “Is there a point to this train of thought or…”

“Shush. I’m getting there. So we’ve been acting like we were sixteen and then turned seventeen and eighteen normally, then we once again skipped over a couple of months and hopped into London again in November, so we just started saying we were nineteen, but… Suppose we didn’t actually relive any of those years and so technically we’re actually both closer to twenty-one by this point! Give or take a year! OR” - Emily gasped - “maybe we were wrong about jumping ahead and skipping birthdays and we had actually gone back in time and--”

“In conclusion: time travel’s fucking weird. Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“Well you’re no fun,” pouted Emily.

“And you don’t look in your mid-twenties. And you’re definitely not still sixteen or whatever.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“How could that be interpreted as…? God you’re weird. Okay new topic: where do you see yourself in, say, five years?”

“Is this in five years supposing we look twenty-five or thirty?”

“...Emily.”

“It’s a legit question okay! It makes a difference!”

“Emily.”

“Geez. Okay. Um. Here, I guess?” Emily shrugged, sinking back into the chair. “It’s a lot better knowing that the ‘real world’ is still on the back burner somewhere and I could, theoretically, get back there eventually and know nothing will have changed since I left. In five years though…” The girl sucked in a breath of air and exhaled slowly. “Yeah, here,” she shrugged again. I used to be set on art school - even got accepted to a couple back home - but… I suppose being an assistant consulting detective as just as good. I’m not making anything, obviously, but I suppose in the long run I wouldn’t have students loans and between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson I almost never have to worry about doing my own grocery shopping or laundry.”

“Fuck college!” Scottie exclaimed so loudly and so suddenly that Emily jerked upright in her seat. “You can have the best of both worlds. Like, John’s an employed doctor and still spent all of his time dicking around with Sherlock on cases. You should apply for an internship at an animation studio around here. I’ve seen your work; it’s quite good, if my opinion counts for anything.”

Emily blushed a little at this. “Damn straight.”

“Gotta work on your humility though, hun. It’s unbecoming.”

“Okay, what about you, then? Where do you see yourself in five years? Still in the cupboard under Sherlock’s stairs?”

Scottie frowned. “Okay, first off: hardy-har-har I saw where you were trying to go with that and it wasn’t even close to funny you prick. Secondly, I don’t think that--”

“Oh hang on, I’m buzzing!” Emily interrupted and pulled her iPhone out from a back pocket. “Something happened. Sherlock’s in the the hospital. Will keep you posted, JW” she read.

“Ask him the address!” Scottie let out as he scrambled to his feet.

Emily glanced up at him. “If he’s going into surgery now they’re not gonna let us see him. He doesn’t wake up until tomorrow morning, remember?”

“I don’t care. We’re going to be there for him. Hurry up and ask the address,” urged Scottie. “Letting out a sigh, Emily starting tapping away at the phone’s keypad. “Are you doing it?” the boy pressed.”

“Yes.” Emily sounded vaguely annoyed.

“Have you done it?”

The girl paused to squint up at her friend.

“I spew references when I’m stressed,” huffed Scottie, “sue me.”

Emily finished typing out the message and sent it. It buzzed again a couple moments later, but this time Emily answered without notifying Scottie first. The phone then buzzed once more and she said “It’s by Cardiff University. John doesn’t know how long until they’ll let us see him but we’re welcome to join him overnight in the waiting room, which is kind of not something I’m down for--”

“We’re doing it.”

“--okay so I guess that’s happening. Oh, and apparently John wants us to pick up take-out on our way.”

Scottie folded his arms. “Doesn’t he have a wife or some shit for that stuff?”

“Yeah, but considering she’s the one who shot Sherlock in the first place…”

“He doesn’t know that.”

Emily shook her head and stood up. “Whatever. I’m feeling Speedy’s tonight. Do you happen to remember where I set my card down last?”

\---

It was a long night that involved very little sleep, if any at all. John and the kids weren’t allowed into Sherlock’s room until it was well into the wee hours of the morning, and even then Sherlock showed very few signs of consciousness.

“This is all eerily familiar,” Scottie whispered to Emily as he looked on at Sherlock lying in a hospital bed across the room, shirtless and hooked up to a machine. “When it was you lying in that bed, and Sherlock, John, and I were up all night panicking.”

“Oh yeah. I guess last night you’ll be the only one who hasn’t gotten shot yet.” Emily lifted a leg up and pulled the bottom of her jeans as much as they would go up her calf, so that the edge of her scar could be seen. Holding onto the end of the bed for support, she felt an index finger over the scar and then brought her jeans down again.

Scottie had a seat in a nearby chair. “Let’s try and keep it that way, shall we?”

“Aw come on, all the cool kids are doing it! Hey John, could Scottie and I borrow your gun eventually?”

John shot the girl a puzzled and vaguely concerned look.

“She’s kidding,” Scottie assured the older man.

“Only a little bit.”

John sat down next to Scottie and patted the third and as of yet unoccupied chair next to his. “Sit down and try to keep quiet,” he instructed, his voice low. Emily exhaled and did as she was told.

After silently twiddling her thumbs for a couple moments Emily leaned forward and looked over at Scottie on John’s other side. “We need matching scars to complete the blood ritual,” she said grimly.

Scottie tensed up at this. “Get your devil magic away from me,” he hissed back.

Emily began chanting: “One of us. One of us. One of us.”

“Emily, stop harassing your not-brother,” John sighed wearily. “She’s not going to shoot you, okay?”

“THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK.”

Time passed. Scottie and Emily had just started to doze off again on John’s shoulders, respectively, when Sherlock’s breathing increased and he softly whispered “Mary.”

John popped up out of the chair, knocking Scottie and Emily off-balance and causing them to bump heads in the process. They each jerked upright at this, now completely awake again. “Oh thank God,” John exhaled as he came to Sherlock’s side. The detective blinked ever so slowly and then seemed to drift back to into unconsciousness.

Emily scrubbed her hands over her face, shook her head, and came up behind John, who had just checked his phone. “That’s Mary,” he mumbled. Putting the device back into his back pocket, John spun Emily around by her shoulders and gave her a little push towards her seat. “Wait here. Keep the noise level down. Don’t bother Sherlock; I’ll be back.”

With that the doctor disappeared outside of the room, leaving the both of them alone with Sherlock. It was only a matter of minutes before the door creaked open, and they expected to be Mary, but as it would turn out it was just a nurse stepping in to check up on Sherlock’s vitals. She smiled and nodded at Scottie and Emily, who awkwardly waved back, and then she left the room again with a satisfied hum. Shortly after the door swung open yet again, and this time it was Mary, who stopped as soon as she noticed that Sherlock wasn’t alone.

“Don’t bother,” Scottie told the woman bitterly. “He knows.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“Look, we’re not going to tell John either, okay? But you should probably go. After what you’ve put him through, the last thing Sherlock needs is you threatening him.”

Mary’s mouth hung slightly ajar for a moment and then she swallowed. “Whatever you think you know…” she started stiffly.

“I’m serious. Go.”

“Scottie!” Emily hissed and smacked the boy’s side with the back of her hand.

Mary hesitated in the doorway for a moment before taking another couple steps towards Sherlock. Scottie sprung to his feet and came forward, making her stop again and turn. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Mary said sternly.

“Like hell it doesn’t.”

“Scottie, please,” Emily begged. She hovered a foot or so behind the boy, looking like she wanted to pull him back but hadn’t quite decided if she was going to be that bold yet. Nearby Sherlock opened his eyes painfully and watched what was going on, but his vision was still blurred and he seemed to be looking past them.

“Not a word, you hear?” Mary whispered. She looked like she was trying to loom over the boy, but it wasn’t working so well because for once he was actually taller than one of the main characters, even if not by much.

Scottie narrowed his eyes. “That’s what I said.”

Although reluctant, Mary did leave the room. As soon as the door had clicked shut Scottie exhaled dramatically and threw his head back.

“The hell was that about?” Emily demanded, folding her arms. “I happen to like Mary, and I know that you do, too.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that she shot Sherlock last night,” Scottie pointed out. “In any case, as long as I’m here I intend on sheltering Sherlock from anyone who’s just come to harass him.”

“Why? Because that’s your job?”

“Funny.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Scottie folded his arms and looked away for a moment. “Magnussen may or may not stop by at some point today,” Scottie met her eyes again. He had dropped his voice to a near whisper on the off chance that Sherlock was listening in and capable of comprehending the conversation. “It was in an outtake so I’m not sure, but I’m not going to leave Sherlock’s side and let that happen. It was… incredibly unnerving in a very rapist sort of way.”

Emily let her gaze fall on Sherlock. “Fine. That’s… fair enough, I suppose.” Suddenly there was a buzzing from the girl’s pocket accompanied by the muffled theme to Gravity Falls. “Oh shit,” he breathed, “I forgot to check in with Stephen. He wanted to take me to… some event thing today, I don’t know. I have to take this. Hey!” Emily smiled and held the phone up to her ear as she left the room.

As soon as she was gone the ceiling fan suddenly seemed much louder in the otherwise quiet room. Scottie took a deep breath and made his way back to his chair, which he first pulled a little closer to Sherlock’s bedside and then had a seat in. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine,” he promised the consulting detective.

In the days to come Emily and John were in and out of the hospital, but Scottie remained adamantly by Sherlock’s side through his recovery. Emily continued to prod and tease Scottie about the prospect of shooting him as soon as the current ordeal was over with, which he mostly responded to with panicked squeaks and more than once she had caught him looking up information regarding bullet wounds in various areas. He figured she wasn’t actually serious about the whole thing, but on the off chance…

Meanwhile Sherlock spent a lot of his time sleeping and had apparently gotten used to the idea of Scottie sticking around. It was difficult to tell whether or not he appreciated their company, but that was hardly ever not the case with Sherlock.

“I’m Sherlock bleeding Holmes!” Scottie exclaimed the thickest British accent he could manage. “Just look at my magnifying glass - it’s enormous!”

“My magnifying glass isn’t enormous,” Sherlock frowned.

Emily smiled sympathetically and put a hand on the man’s forearm. “Oh, I know, hun. But there’s a time and place for modesty.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it a couple times before finally sighing defeatedly. “Should’ve figured that was an innuendo,” the detective mumbled.

The door clicked open and in came Janine, her hands full with a stack of folded newspapers. “Oh, um, should we… give you two a minute?” Emily asked awkwardly.

“You’re fine, sweetie,” the woman purred. She pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat down in it, holding the stack of papers out for Sherlock to see. Sherlock read each of the headlines silently as she flipped through them, for a couple moments dropping each as she finished with it. Janine smiled and slapped down the last newspaper. “I’m buying a cottage,” she announced. “I made a lot of money out of you, mister.” Sherlock reached out and took one of the papers. “Nothing hits the spot like revenge for profits,” she went on.

“You didn’t give these stories to Magnussen, did you?” Sherlock asked.

“God, no! One of his rivals. He was spittin’!”

Sherlock grunted and smiled a little.

Janine met the man’s eyes. Her voice was much harsher now as she said “Sherlock Holmes, you are a back-stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard.”

“Um. Really, we can go.” Emily gestured to the door.

“Shhh no we can’t, we’re physically glued to this spot,” Scottie countered.

Sherlock pressed a button on the remote to his bed, making it come forward so that he was sitting more upright than before. “And you, as it turns out, are a grasping, opportunistic, public-hungry tabloid whore.”

“So we’re good, then!” Janine let out cheerily.

“Yeah, of course. Where’s the cottage?”

“Sussex Downs.”

“Hm, nice.”

“It’s gorgeous,” sighed Janine. “There’s beehives, but I’m getting rid of those.”

“Aw wait, this means you won’t be around anymore,” Emily realized.

Janine shrugged. “Well. No, I don’t think that would be quite appropriate.”

“Man. I was looking forward to helping cook for that couples dinner…”

“There’s no way in hell they were going to let you help anyway,” Scottie rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on! My cooking isn’t terrible!”

“No, but you’re accident-prone. Last time you tried to bake Mrs. Hudson was scraping egg yolk off the ceiling. And then there was the time you burnt a pot of water…”

Emily fold her arms. “Okay, first off, that could’ve happened to anyone.”

“You temporarily broke physics. I didn’t know it was physically possible to fuck up that badly.”

Sherlock, who had been apparently trying to prop himself up further, winced in pain. “Aw, hurts, doesn’t it?” commented Janine. “Probably wanna restart your morphine. I might have fiddled with the taps.”

“How much more revenge are you gonna need?”

“Just the occasional top-up.”

“I thought you were guarding that?” questioned Emily.

Scottie shrugged. “So did I. She’s good.”

“Dream come true for you, this place,” Janine went on. “They actually attach the drugs to you!”

“Not good for working,” Sherlock mumbled.

“You won’t be working for a while, Sherl. You lied to me. You lied and lied.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. “I exploited the fact of our connection.”

“When!”

“Hm?”

“Just once would have been nice.”

“Oh.” Sherlock hesitated. “I was waiting until we got married.”

“That was never gonna happen!” Janine huffed. She stood up then and muttered “Got to go.” Coming closer, the woman bent forward and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead and wiped away the lipstick mark resulting from it with a thumb. Janine retrieved her handbag then. “I’m not supposed to keep you talking. And also I have an interview with The One Show and I haven’t made it up yet. You two stay out of trouble now, you hear?” she added to Scottie and Emily as if an after thought on her way to the door.

“I swear to God, why does everyone feel the need to tell us that?” Scottie huffed.

“Just one thing,” Janine said as she stopped at the end of the room. Sherlock glanced up at her. “You shouldn’t have lied to me. I know what kind of man you are… but we could have been friends. I’ll give your love to John and Mary.” Smiling, Janine left the room and let the door shut behind herself.

Sherlock sank back in his bed and let his eyes flutter shut again. “I imagine you two are starting to feel cooped up in here,” he said softly.

“Nonsense,” insisted Scottie. “It’s a privilege to enjoy your company 24/7.”

“You mean finally you have me as your captive audience?”

“I think you meant to say captiVATED.”

Sherlock snorted a little at this but didn’t respond.

Emily was leaning against the wall and frowning down at her phone. “Speaking of, Stephen wants to cook me dinner tonight.”

“Congratulations?” Scottie said, making a face and bringing his shoulders up. “Hey, why hasn’t he come in at all to visit Sherlock? Or, more specifically, you.”

“Oh, he definitely offered after his shift. More than once. But I thought it might be weird so I told him not to bother.”

“Weird for us or weird for you?” Scottie asked.

Emily shrugged and looked down at the floor. “Both, I guess. Solving cases, getting into tight binds and near-death scenarios… That isn’t his scene. But he respects it. I think.”

The day went on and eventually evening came. The door swung open and John and Lestrade came into the room and then stopped again, glancing from the empty hospital bed to the opened window and realizing that a certain someone had apparently fled the scene.

“Oh, Jesus,” John exhaled. “Where did he go?” the man asked Scottie and Emily accusingly, who exchanged panicked looks and then turned back to John with a shrug. “You don’t… Well, what were you thinking, letting him leave!”

“Uhhh we weren’t here when it happened?” Scottie tried with a desperate smile.

“We went to the bathroom,” Emily agreed quickly.

Lestrade made a face. “Both of you?”

“Buddy system...?”

\---

“I’m going to have to cancel on Stephen,” Emily realized.

Scottie looked over at her accusingly. “You mean you haven’t already? Isn’t that kind of pushing it?”

“He knew who shot him,” John was saying as he paced across the living room. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were in the kitchen and Emily and Scottie had taken up Sherlock and John’s armchairs. John stopped and looked towards the others, jabbing a finger at his own chest. “The bullet wound was here, so he was facing whoever it was.”

“So why not tell us?” Lestrade asked, coming into the room. John exhaled and looked out the window. “Because he’s tracking them down himself,” the DI realized.

“Or protecting them,” John said, turning back.

“Protecting the shooter? Why?”

“Well, protecting someone, then. But why would he care? He’s Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?”

Scottie strummed his fingers along the arm of Sherlock’s chair thoughtfully. “The plot thickens.”

John came up to his armchair, saw that Emily was already in it, and muttered “move”. Emily glanced up at the man and then got out of the way, expressionless. John took up the seat she had vacated only to realize too late that she had planned on relocating to his lap all along. John made a sort of confused face then, but it was unclear as to whether this was in response to Emily sitting on him or that he had only just realized his chair had made it back into the flat somehow, perhaps of its own accord?

“Call me if you hear anything,” Lestrade sighed. “Don’t hold out on me, John. Call me, okay?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

“Good night then,” the detective inspector said, looking at Mrs. Hudson. With that Lestrade took his leave. The landlady followed after him.

“Bye then,” the woman said softly.

The phone in Emily’s back pocket had started vibrating and John stiffed. “Please answer that or get off,” he said flatly.

“They’re texts,” the girl corrected, glancing over at him as much as she could from over her shoulder.

“Who’s texting you so much?”

“That would be the bae,” Scottie yawned. “Probably pissed after he made her a romantic candlelit dinner and she just bailed on him.”

“I didn’t say it would be candlelit,” Emily tried to defend herself.

Scottie leaned forward in his seat, propping his elbows up over his knees. “Last time you went over there he put out fucking rose petals. Rose petals, Emily. The poor bastard’s in love with you.”

Emily looked both surprised and alarmed by this. “He is not!” she insisted. And then, a little more hopeful than anything else: “Do you really think?”

“John? Need a cuppa?” Mrs. Hudson offered, going back to the kitchen.

“Mrs. Hudson…” John cleared his throat and lifted his head somewhat. “Wh-Why does Sherlock think that I’ll be moving back in here?”

So he had noticed. “Oh, yes, he’s put your chair back again, hasn’t he?” the landlady commented.

“Huh.”

“That’s nice! Looks much better.” Mrs. Hudson came in with the kettle. She noticed that he was now frowning at the perfume bottle sitting on the end table next to him. “John, what’s wrong? Tell me. John?”

John looked away and a phone started to buzz again. “Emily--” John started.

“That one wasn’t me!”

“That’s your phone, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Hudson. She hurried across the living room to retrieve the phone from the dining table. “It’s Sherlock, John. It’s Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson held the phone out to him but John looked away. “John! You have to answer it!”

When John refused to do so and instead kept his gaze fixed on the perfume bottle. Sighing, Emily took the phone and answered it. “Papa John’s, may I take your order?”

John snapped his neck around at this and Scottie snickered.

\---

After John had taken off there was a bit of debate between Scottie and Emily as to whether or not they should sneak off after him, but they ultimately concluded that their presence would only screw up Sherlock’s little scheme in exposing Mary to her husband and instead stayed behind in 221B with Mrs. Hudson. Luckily they weren’t waiting around for much longer than an hour before the rest of the pack came trudging into the flat and without saying a word to one another. John strode in first and tossed his jacket down over the dining table. Mrs. Hudson came out from the kitchen.

“John?”

Mary came in at a much slower pace.

“Mary!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, to which the other woman smiled only slightly. Scottie and Emily peered out from around the corner in the kitchen and hesitated, as if unsure if it were safe for them to come into the living room just yet.

Sherlock appeared in the flat’s door frame. He was propping himself up against the edge of it.

“Oh, Sherlock!” the landlady gasped. “Oh, good gracious, you look terrible!”

“Get me some morphine from your kitchen,” the man instructed. “I’ve run out.”

“I don’t have any morphine!”

“Then what exactly is the point of you?” Sherlock suddenly spat, causing the woman to tense up.

“What is going on?” Mrs. Hudson demanded.

“Bloody good question,” John practically growled.

“The Watsons are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we’ve got work to do,” Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson.

John came up into Mary’s face angrily. “Oh, I have better question. Is everyone I’ve ever met a psychopath?”

“Yes,” Sherlock, Emily, and Scottie all said at once. Mary merely gave a nod of agreement.

“Good that we’ve settled that,” Sherlock went on, stepping inside. “Anyway, we--”

“SHUT UP!” John spat angrily.

Mrs. Hudson let out a surprised “Oh!” as she threw a hand over her mouth.

“And stay shut up,” the doctor went on, “because this is not funny. Not this time.”

“I didn’t say it was funny.”

“Oh hey, speaking of funny…” Scottie leaned into Emily’s ear and whispers something. She snorted.

“Shh. Don’t bring that up now.”

“But it’s just…”

“I know, but…” Emily chuckled again and immediately threw a hand into her mouth to keep from laughing at the inside joke Scottie had reminded her of.

John turned to Mary. “You. What have I ever done… Hm? My whole life… to deserve you?”

“Everything,” Sherlock pressed.

“Sherlock. I’ve told you… shut up.”

“Oh, I mean it, seriously,” Sherlock said softly. “Everything - everything you’ve ever done is what you did.”

“Sherlock. One more word and you will not need morphine.”

But Sherlock just couldn’t keep quiet. “You were a doctor who went to war,” the man went on, beginning to raise his voice. “You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high.” Beat. “That’s me, by the way. Hello.” Sherlock gave a little wave before pointing to Mrs. Hudson and continuing. “Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel.”

“It was my husband’s cartel,” Mrs. Hudson shot back defensively. “I was just typing.”

“And exotic dancing.”

“Sherlock Holmes, if you’ve been YouTube-ing--”

“And don’t even get me started on the pair of doofuses giggling in the background!” Sherlock shouted with a flail of his arm in the direction of Emily and Scottie who were, in his defense, currently trying to choke back laughter. “Somehow they know everything about our lives, down to very the last most intimate details, claim to have lived with us in some sort of… alternate reality, which, as far as we know, might even be true, because for the love of God, we STILL can’t explain who they are or where they came from!”

Scottie wheezed, a short trail of laughter escaping him.

“Okay, yes, thank you,” Sherlock sighed. “I proved my point already.”

“I’m sorry,” Scottie tried. “It’s just… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Go on. We’ll be quiet.” Now Emily was the one snickering.

Sherlock let out an exaggerated sigh. “Anyway. John. You are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people… so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?”

John grimaced and threw an accusatory finger at his wife, eyes still locked on Sherlock. “But she wasn’t supposed to be like that. Why is she like that?”

“Because you chose her.”

“Why is everything…” John started pacing, “always… MY FAULT?!” The man threw a furious kick at the table beside Sherlock’s chair.

Mrs. Hudson jumped, flailing slightly. “Oh, the neighbors!” she worried just before hurrying out of the room.

“John, listen,” Sherlock tried, his voice low. “Be calm and answer me. What is she?”

“My lying wife.”

Emily and Scottie both chuckled.

“No. What is she?” Sherlock asked again, ignoring the kids.

“And the woman who’s carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her.”

Laughter from the peanut gallery grew louder now. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to focus on the issue at hand. “No. Not in this flat; not in this room. Right here, right now, what--”

“She wears snort snirt I wear sneep snop,” Scottie said under his breath, starting to fan himself to keep from losing it. Emily wheezed even louder, tears starting to come out and she clutched the edge of the kitchen door to keep from falling over.

Mary shifted her eyes over to them and couldn’t help but start to smile a little.

John clenched his fists. “For the love of…” John pulled up a chair and placed it in front of her. “You. Mary. Sit.”

His wife did so uneasily. Emily came into the living room and took a seat on the couch as well, as she was now crying to the point where she couldn’t even keep her own legs upright.

Scottie looked equally messed up over the whole thing. “Sneep snop,” he whimpered, his face going red. He then toppled over onto his knees.

Now it was Mary’s turn to let out an audible laugh.

“MARY.” John warned with a large frown.

“I’m sorry,” Mary apologized between a gigglefit of her own. “I’m so sorry, John, I know this serious, but… I just can’t. I don’t even know what they’re laughing about and I still can’t.”

“SH-SHE WEARS SNORT SNIRT I WEAR SNEEP SNOP,” Emily let out loudly, her face an odd contortion of pain and pleasure. She was lying on her back across the sofa now. Their laughs seemed to fuse together and only grow in volume, eventually sounding more and more like a band of cackling hyenas.

John’s eye twitched. “That’s it. I’m getting my gun. I’m going to kill all three of them, and then I’m going to shoot myself. Goodbye Sherlock.”

“No, wait,” Sherlock tried, stumbling up to John and placing his hands over the man’s shoulders. “While you’re at it… can you please shoot me too? I’m kind of sort of bleeding internally. Thanks.”

As he said this, the detective’s legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground. “Oh my GOD,” John gasped, stumbling backwards.

As if what was happening couldn’t possibly deviate from the original script any more, the door to 221B flung open again by none other than Stephen Bainbridge. The young man stood there for a moment, wide-eyed and panting.

“I… Emily was texting me, and,” he wheezed, “and she said something about Sherlock escaping from the hospital, and then… and then she was going to meet up with the person who shot him, and… I tried calling and she wasn’t answering, and I just--I panicked, I…” Stephen swallowed and scanned his eyes across the living room. Emily, Scottie, and Mary were still dying of laughter, Sherlock was apparently dying of internal bleeding, and John had reached a point where he probably wouldn’t give a shit if any one of them actually did die. “So… So is everything alright? Was this a bad time? I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

John pinched at the bridge of his nose for a moment before responding. “Hello, Stephen.”

“Oh fucking shit,” Scottie exhaled, scrambling to his feet.

Emily stopped laughing just long enough to pop back up again as well. “Ah, yes, Stephen, good timing! Um, there was a… heh… bit of a thing earlier, but… but it’s all being worked out now… haha…” She clenched her teeth, holding back yet another stream of laughs.

“What the bloody hell is a… snoot sneet anyway?” Mary asked, wiping away a tear.

“You know what, I’ve seen enough,” Stephen practically growled, turning away.

“Nu! Stephen! W-Wait!” Emily called after him, hurrying to his side and very nearly toppling over in the process.

“Use a condom!” Scottie called after the couple, to which Mary clipped his ear.

Scottie flinched. “What? She should, shouldn’t she?”

Emily followed Stephen outside of the building, where he violently whirled around at the foot of the steps. “Stephen, I didn’t mean to ignore you like that,” Emily tried to explain. “It’s just… A lot was going on, and sometimes it’s hard to--”

“To what?” the boy spat. “To let your fucking boyfriend know that you aren’t dead?!”

Emily frowned. “Geez, calm down. What did you really think would happen to me?”

“What did I think? I’ll tell you what I thought! First you text me to cancel plans because Sherlock just got shot. Then, then you say he’s run away from the hospital, and a couple hours later you finally bother to answer me again, saying you’re going to confront the assassin?!” Stephen clenched and unclenched his fists. “And then… on top of all that… I hurry my arse over here, terrified that you might be in trouble and not even sure if you’re going to be there, only to find the whole gang together and rolling on the floor laughing like I’ve just missed the punchline of a really good inside joke!”

“Okay but in my defense, it was a pretty good joke...”

Stephen threw his arms out to the side and then let them drop again dramatically. “That’s it. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what anymore?” asked Emily.

“This. Us. You.”

Emily looked hurt and offended. “I’m sorry, did you just say me?”

“I did. And you know why? Because of this shit! All the time! I’m… I’m constantly worried that you’re going to do something dumb and get yourself killed!”

The girl huffed. “Well, excuse the fuck out of me, but you wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me and my… my shit!”

“Don’t you try to play that card with me! Dr. Watson saved my life, not you. And when you’re not with me and you don’t check in, I can’t help but assume the worst, knowing you! And - and when you are with me, there’s always this nagging feeling like I’m not good enough. Not exciting enough. Not the way HE is, anyway.”

“Wh… Don’t make this about Sherlock!” Emily said bitterly, folding her arms.

“It is, though, isn’t it?” Stephen went on. “He’s the one who gets you into these situations. It’s like… Sometimes I feel like there’s you guys, the heroes in some crazy wacked-out adventure story, and then I’m just a lowly side character in comparison!”

“You don’t even know the half of it…”

Stephen took a sharp breath and a cautious step forward, palms out in front of him. “Emily. Do you remember what we were talking about before? About… About my offer?”

The girl took Stephen’s hands in her own but shook her head knowingly. “Don’t do this. Don’t make me choose, because we both know it’s going to be Sherlock. It’s always going to be Sherlock.”

“I know,” Stephen sighed in defeat. “I just wanted to hear you say it. Goodbye, Emily.” The man let go and turned to leave.

Emily watched him go helplessly, starting to tear up again, but this time not from laughter. “Sneet snort,” she muttered miserably just before turning back inside.

\---

Scottie came and found Emily sitting on her bed in 221C less than an hour later. “Well that was exciting,” the boy breathed, shutting the door behind himself. “Not too long after you left the paramedics had to come and take Sherlock back to the hospital, and John and Mary had their talk, which I think we may’ve made even worse. John is still upstairs, but Mary’s gone already.” He paused, realizing that Emily hadn’t looked up since he came in. “Hey, I thought you’d be with Stephen right now? Emily?”

“Go away.”

“Is… everything okay?”

This time instead of answering, the girl shook her head.

“Do you want to talk about it or…?”

Emily shook her head again.

Ignoring his friend’s wishes to be left alone, Scottie let himself into their room and took a seat next to Emily at the edge of her bed. He could now see that she was on the verge of tears. “Well, tough, because I’m not leaving until I know what’s the matter and if I can do anything about it.”

Apart from Emily’s sniffling, the two of them sat in silence for some time before Emily finally whimpered, “Stephen and I broke up.”

“Oh. Hey… Y’know, what I said earlier about dating being off-limits… Well, you didn’t actually have to take my advice about it,” the boy said. “As long as he made you happy--”

“He dumped me,” Emily’s voice cracked. “Sort of.”

“Oh.” Scottie swallowed. “Did… he say why?”

“He said… He said he felt like everything going on with me was so complicated, and… a-and that he couldn’t take constantly being worried if I was safe or not, chasing after serial killers and forgetting to pick up the phone or text back ever…” Emily rubbed at her eye with the back of her hand and blinked up at the ceiling before continuing. “He, um. He wanted me to pick between him and… and Sherlock.”

“Seems like a reoccuring problem around here,” Scottie whispered. Emily shot him a look. “I-I mean, but um, so… So what did you say, then?”

“Well. We’re not together anymore, are we?”

Scottie made a sympathetic smile and put an arm around her. “It’s probably for the best, you know. I mean. The Bloody Guardsman sure had a fine piece of ass on him, but if a guy is going to get all offended because you’d rather take a bullet than let him keep tabs on you 24/7, is he really worth all the trouble? And just look at you!” Scottie gestured with his other arm. “You can do so much better than a minor character!”

“Y-You think so?”

“Oh yeah. Primary cast, even. Like, if John were a good twenty years younger and not already married, he’d totally tap that!”

“Thanks,” Emily tried not to blush. “It… It means a lot to me.”

“Sassy gay friend whenever you need one,” Scottie smiled back. “So. Are you okay, then?”

“No. But… I will be.”

After having gotten to this point, Scottie went back upstairs to rejoin John, who was currently sitting on the couch and staring blankly forward at the fireplace.

“Hey,” Scottie began awkwardly and took a seat beside him.

“Hey yourself,” moaned John.

“Uh. So Emily’s downstairs, and I thought I’d give her a little alone time. Stephen broke up with her.”

The doctor sat for another couple seconds before forcing himself to his feet. “I’ll go get my gun,” he grumbled.

\---

John did end up moving back into 221B Baker Street. In the following months it was almost surreal how much things had started to feel like the good old days, minus the obvious fact that as much as he brushed off the topic whenever it came up, John was not all right. Mary had all but vanished from their lives, and Emily hadn’t seen Stephen since the breakup.

“Look, are you going to put the thing into a computer or just stare at it a couple times a week for the rest of your life?” Scottie finally asked one more as he caught John once again turning the flash drive about in his hand. It was labelled A.G.R.A. and had been the one Mary gave to him the last time they’d both seen her. Apparently it contained all the details of her old life, but although very much tempted, John never did bring himself to look further into it.

John turned away from the window and looked over at Scottie. “That really isn’t any of your business.”

“If you’re not going to look, can I at least have a peek?” the boy practically begged. “I promise I won’t tell you anything if you won’t want me to.”

“Absolutely not,” John said sternly and gasped the flash drive tighter in the palm of his hand.

Scottie nodded slowly. “Okay. But see, what you don’t know about me is that I’m very skilled in the art of SNEAK ATTACK!” as the boy shouted the end of his sentence he launched himself forward and made a grab for the flash drive. John stepped out of the way just in time, however, and Scottie came skidding to a halt, unable to stop his momentum before he knocked over Sherlock’s music stand. Several loose pages of sheet music scattered.

Scottie straightened again and whirled around at John. “Alright,” he nodded. “Good play. I’ll give you that one. But I bet you weren’t expecting the same thing twice!” With this Scottie hurled himself in John’s direction once more and John lifted his arm so that Scottie had to jump to try and snatch away the flash drive. He, however, missed yet again and this time Scottie lost his footing altogether and came crashing to the floor.

Emily came into the room then. “What are you boneheads doing?” she demanded. “We’re leaving any minute now! It’s a two and a half drive to Gloucestershire, and that’s assuming the traffic is good.”

“Oh shit that’s today isn’t it?” Scottie realized but made no attempt to get up from the floor. “Christmas party at Mr. and Mrs. Holmes’.”

“Yeah. Take note of the lights around the windows. Also, do you recall how we exchanged presents earlier this morning? Or, perhaps, the festive holiday sweater I’m wearing?” Emily gestured to her attire.

“Is that… my jumper?” John asked slowly.

Emily looked down at the sweater and then back at the man. “Um. No, because if it were it would be enormous on me, and as you can clearly see this is tight-fitting. Although I will admit that it looks strikingly similar to the one you wore on Christmas Eve three years ago…”

“How would you know that?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Um. Facebook pictures?”

It was around an hour or so past noon when the group arrived at the Holmes’ house, which had been done up with Christmas decorations. After Sherlock’s parents greeted the four of them, they were ushered into the kitchen, where Mycroft was already waiting along with another man that Scottie and Emily had yet to formally meet, but certainly recognized from the show itself.

“You already know my brother,” Sherlock was saying. “This is Bill Wiggins. Bill, these are my assistants, Scottie and Emily. There are two of them because they’re both equally awful at everything I ask them to do.”

“Sherlock’s homie,” Scottie said.

“And I’m Sherlock’s homegirl,” Emily also said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this, muttering “Example A.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Bill nodded, shaking Scottie and Emily’s hand in turn.

“Mary is in the sitting room,” Mr. Holmes said to John.

“Oh,” breathed John. “Good to know. I’ll… I’ll be a couple minutes, but then. Yeah. Thanks.” He smiled at Sherlock’s father, who smiled back and nodded on his way outside.

Sherlock, Scottie, and Emily each took up a seat around the kitchen table. “Well, aren’t you going to say hello to your brother?” Mrs. Holmes asked expectantly and placed a hand over her hip.

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. “Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled a little, although it looked quite fake. “And a merry Christmas to you too, Mycroft. I do hope this isn’t too uncomfortable, considering the last time you saw Scottie and Emily…”

“Yes. I remember.”

“I still haven’t forgiven you for that,” Emily frowned, rubbing at the spot where Mycroft had struck her all those months ago.

“Me neither!” huffed Scottie.

Mycroft put on an equally fake smile. “Yes, I figured you might not.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about him, dears,” Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes. “Mikey’s promised to be on his best behavior for today.” She set a tray of crackers and cheeses out in front of them. Emily took some of each, stuffed them into her mouth, and then got up again.

“Do you need any help?” the girl offered.

“Oh, no, but thank you, dear,” Mrs. Holmes smiled. “You just enjoy yourself. So how’s work been?” she asked, seeming to address Sherlock. “You have been able to get back into the swing of things, haven’t you?”

"Dreadfully slow," the detective droned, his hands resting beneath his chin . "Haven't had a good case in weeks. Months, even. The other day I was so bored I almost agreed to play Twister with the children."

Mycroft whipped his head around with a look of urgency about him. "You must be strong, brother!" he insisted.

"Of course. Don't you think I realized it was a trap?" Sherlock let his hands drop and reached out to pick up a nearby newspaper.

Mrs. Holmes let out a soft chuckle. John had since disappeared down the hall. Mycroft leaned back in his seat and sighed. “Oh, dear God, it’s only 2:00,” the man said despairingly. “It’s been Christmas Day for at least a week now. How can it be only 2:00? I’m in agony.”

“Mikey, is this your laptop?” Mrs. Holmes asked and pointed at the device in question on the table.

“On which depends the security of the free world, yes,” Mycroft answered. “And you’ve got potatoes on it.”

Mrs. Holmes shrugged. “Well, you shouldn’t leave it lying around if it’s so important.” The woman took up a basket full of Christmas crackers, which she set down again as soon as Mycroft started to speak again.

“Why are we doing this? We never do this.”

“We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are all very happy,” said Mrs. Holmes, leaning over the table. “Not to mention he’s got a family now. Isn’t that exciting? Having a niece and nephew of your own?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Is it, now? I haven’t checked.”

“Behave, Mike.” Mrs. Holmes lifted the basket again.

“Mycroft is the name you gave me. If you could possibly struggle all the way to the end…”

“Mrs. Holmes?” Bill came over to the host with a glass of punch.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Holmes said and took the drink from him. “Not absolutely sure why you’re here.”

“I invited him,” Sherlock explained.

“I’m his protege, Mrs. ‘olmes. When ‘e dies, I get all his stuff. An’ ‘is job.”

“No,” Sherlock disagreed without looking up from his paper.

“No, that would be me,” Scottie added.

“Also no.”

“Oh. Well, I help out a bit,” Bill shrugged.

“Closer.”

“I help out a lot,” Scottie countered.

“If ‘e does get murdered or something…” Bill trailed off hopefully. Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes shared an appalled look at this remark.

“Probably stop talking now,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Okay.”

“Lovely when you bring your friends round,” Mycroft said softly. “How many more should I be expecting ‘round this time next year?”

Mrs. Holmes set her glass down. “Stop it, you. Somebody’s put a bullet in my boy, and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous. Ah. This was for Mary.” Mrs. Holmes retrieved something unseen from the countertop and took it into the other room, saying, “I’ll be back in a minute.” Sherlock glanced down at his watch momentarily.

“Oh, where’s the restroom?” Scottie asked suddenly.

“Down the hall,” grumbled Mycroft. “Second door.”

“I’ll also be back,” the boy announced and disappeared around the corner.

Mrs. Holmes returned shortly. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she offered no one in particular. “Some punch, perhaps?”

Emily hesitated. “Shoot.”

“Is… something wrong?” the woman asked, looking every bit concerned.

“Well. It’s just that I have this nagging feeling that I shouldn’t, but…” Sherlock’s mother waited for a moment longer before Emily continued cheerily: “Oh well! If I can’t remember it must not’ve been that big a deal, right? Yeah. I’ll take a glass.”

Sherlock got up without a word and went into another room in the house. He returned with his coat on and gestured towards the front door. Mycroft nodded and followed him out. Emily watched them go and awkwardly sipped at her glass just before Scottie reentered.

“Having fun yet?” the boy asked and took a seat next to his friend again.

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scottie shrugged. “I dunno. Whatever you want it to. Merry Christmas.”

Emily smiled a little. “Yeah. Okay.”

Bill came back into the kitchen with yet another glass of punch and offered it out to Scottie, who shook his head and held up a hand. “You sure?” the man asked.

“I’m very sure. Not much of a punch person.”

“Oh. Alright. Something else to drink, then?”

Scottie blinked. “Did I say punch? I meant drinks. I don’t do drinks in general.”

Bill pursed his lips for a moment and then left the room silently, passing Mrs. Holmes, who circled the kitchen and came over to the window, pulling back a curtain to squint out it. “Are they smoking out there?” she wondered aloud. “I bet those two are smoking!” With a displeased huff the woman marched over to the front door. “Are you two smoking?” they could hear her calling out loudly from the other room. After a moment she shut the door again, shook her head, and then went back to fussing about in the kitchen. She put her hands on her hips, sighed, and then migrated over to the armchair by the table that Sherlock had been in earlier.

“Y’know, now that I think about it, before all this I used to wonder what sort of TV show my life would be and this is hardly what I would’ve guessed at the time,” Emily said pensively from where she was seated, her glass in one hand and a nearly finished cookie in the other.

“What are you going on about now?” Scottie asked with a sidelong glance over at her.

“I always assumed some kind of bad sitcom,” she went on. “I certainly had the circle of friends and dating history for it, anyway.” Emily paused to shovel down the last of her pastry and wash it down with a sip from her punch. “And yet here we are. Living indefinitely in some sort of weird… British crossover sci-fi detective universe. Do you think this could be the original version of the show somewhere, and people are watching us?”

Scottie paused to watch as Mycroft came back into the kitchen and had a seat at the end up. He cleared his throat at the kids and gave a little nod before going back to his own thing. Scottie raised an eyebrow just before returning his attention to his conversation with Emily. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you watching Inception recently, does it? Show within a show nonsense?”

“I’m serious. Like… in some alternate universe there could be actors playing us, and we’d… We’d, of course, be nothing more than… than fictional... characters... ourselves.” Emily blinked several times, suddenly feeling her eyelids getting heavy.

“I dunno. S’pose so. Stranger things have happened.” Practically just in front of him Mycroft slumped over the table, causing the boy to jump a little in alarm. Scottie looked to his right to see Mrs. Holmes had gone limp in her seat as well. He blinked a couple times and then remembered what was going on at that particular point in the episode. “Hey, it’s a good thing we both remembered not to drink the punch, right? ...Right?”

When her answer didn’t come immediately, Scottie turned to Emily, somewhat dismayed to find her face planted firmly into the table in front of them. He let out a sigh and slouched back in his seat. “Hell, the fact that you haven’t been killed off yet is kind of a miracle in itself,” he lectured the unconscious girl. Bill reentered the room then to survey his work and frowned at Scottie, who smiled and gave a little wave with his fingers. Not even a little torn about leaving Emily behind, Scottie stood up and pushed his chair in just as Sherlock came back inside, followed immediately by John.

“Did you just drug my pregnant wife?” John asked, eyes wide.

Sherlock made a face at Scottie but moved past him to check on Mycroft’s breathing. “Don’t worry,” he was saying. “Wiggins is an excellent chemist.”

“I calculated your wife’s dose meself,” nodded Bill. “Won’t affect the little one. I’ll keep an eye on ‘er. Couldn’t do anything about the boy, though. He passed on everything I offered ‘im.”

“It’s alright, I’m used to this one not cooperating. Although it’s typically both of them.” Sherlock started to put his scarf on. “In any case, he’ll monitor their recovery. It’s more or less his day job.”

“What the hell have you done?” John asked blankly.

Sherlock took a while to answer. “A deal with the devil,” he finally said.

“Oh, Jesus,” John breathed. He left the kitchen the way they’d come. “Sherlock…” he called after a moment from the other room.

Sherlock started to put his gloves on. “Look,” Scottie started, “I know you’re probably going to put up a fight, but…”

“You can come with,” Sherlock finished for him.

“...wait. For serious?”

“It’s Christmas,” the man shrugged. “As long as you don’t mind leaving Emily behind…”

Scottie shook his head.

“Please tell me you haven’t just gone out of your mind,” John begged from where he was still standing a little ways away.

“Can you hand me that?” Sherlock pointed at Mycroft’s laptop, which Scottie picked up and gave to him. “I’d rather keep you guessing,” he answered John, a little louder than his previous request. There was then the sound of a chopper from overhead, and Scottie and Sherlock both lifted their heads toward the noise. “Ah. There’s our lift.”

Sherlock held the computer beneath his left arm and grabbed a coat with his right. Scottie followed him outside and they both quickened their pace to catch up to John, who had beaten them out. A helicopter was just landing in the field in front of the house.

“Coming?” Sherlock said loudly over the noise.

“Where?” John demanded.

“D’you want your wife to be safe?”

“Yeah, of course I do!” They both stopped to look at the helicopter.

“Good. Because this is going to be incredibly dangerous,” Sherlock said grimly. “One false move and we’ll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason. Magnussen is quite simply the most dangerous man we’ve ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us.”

“But… you’re bringing Scottie along,” John realized. “And it’s Christmas!”

Sherlock smiled and met John’s eyes. “I feel the same.” Beat. “Oh. You mean it’s actually Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?”

John scoffed. “Why would I bring my gun to your parents’ house for Christmas dinner!”

Sherlock held out the jacket he’d grabbed to John. “Is it in your coat?”

“...yes.”

\---

Walking into Appledore felt a lot like stepping inside a brand new Apple store, which was probably not what inspired its name but just as well could have. The three boys were escorted out of the chopper and inside the vast estate by security. They found Magnussen waiting for them on a white leather sofa, a glass of what was probably whiskey in his hand. The man hardly even looked up when Sherlock, John, and Scottie stopped in front of him.

“Three of you? I could’ve sworn you only traveled in even numbers. I would offer you a drink,” Magnussen said slowly, lifting his glass as he spoke, “but it’s very rare and expensive.”

Magnussen finished his drink as John and Scottie exchanged nervous glances. Sherlock came over to him and had a seat on the couch several feet from the man. After setting down the laptop between them, Sherlock awkwardly crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap.

“Oh. It was you,” he muttered, spotting the looping footage from the incident at Guy Fawkes night being played at one end of the room.

“Yes, of course. Although I admit there was a bit of interference I hadn’t counted on. Either way. Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mm.”

Without saying anything, John turned and walked towards the wall to have a closer look at the video. It showed Sherlock starting to run towards the fire. Scottie came into the frame and seemed to be yelling something just before he showed Sherlock to where John was lying on the floor behind the bonfire.

“The drugs thing I never believed for a moment,” Magnussen went on calmly. “Anyway. You wouldn’t care if it was exposed, would you?” Sherlock made an indifferent shrug. “But look how you care about John Watson. Your damsel in distress. Even more so than the adopted kids, I’d wager.”

Scottie chewed on his lower lip but didn’t respond. Just looking at Magnussen made his stomach churn. Towards the end of their first trip to London he had learned to fear Moriarty, but Magnussen was in an entirely separate category. Magnussen made him feel physically sick, and he briefly questioned whether he was better off staying back at the Holmes’ place with Bill and Emily and the others.

John whirled around, almost seething now. “You… put me in a fire… for leverage?”

“Oh, I’d never let you burn, Doctor Watson.” Magnussen sat up and set his glass down onto a clear table standing beside himself. “I had people standing by.” Magnussen stood up then and met John’s eyes. “I’m not a murderer… unlike your wife.” Their eyes remained fixed on one another for a tense moment longer before Magnussen looked over at Sherlock and then came up to the wall himself. “Let me explain how leverage works, Doctor Watson.”

Magnussen touched a finger to the side of the projected footage. There was a beeping sound and then the man slid his hand across the glass, moving away the video.

“For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well… apart from me. Mycroft’s pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock’s pressure point is his best friend, John Watson. John Watson’s pressure point is his wife.” Magnussen let his gaze fall onto Scottie, who sucked in a quick breath of air and held onto it. “Scottie and Emily, although admitted a beloved addition to the family, are no one’s pressure points except perhaps their own. Mere distractions, if you will. The point I’m trying to make, John, is that I own your wife… I own Mycroft.” Magnussen came back to the couch and had a seat once more. “He’s what I’m getting for Christmas.”

“It’s an exchange, not a gift,” Sherlock reminded him as he stood.

Magnussen raised his eyebrows and hesitated a moment before picking up the laptop. “Forgive me, but… I already seem to have it.” The man ran his fingers across the machine playfully.

“It’s password protected. In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson.”

“Oh, she’s bad, that one,” cooed Magnussen. “So many dead people. You should see what I’ve seen.”

“I don’t need to see it,” John said through gritted teeth.

“You might enjoy it, though. I enjoy it.”

“Then why don’t you show us?” Sherlock suggested.

“Show you Appledore?” Magnussen set down the laptop again. “The secret vaults? Is that what you want?”

“I want everything you’ve got on Mary.”

Magnussen laughed a little at this and scratched at the back of his head. He patted the laptop once more. “You know, I honestly expected something good.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Oh, I think you’ll find the contents of that laptop--”

“Include a GPS locator,” Magnussen finished for him. “By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived” - Magnussen took up his glance once more - “they’ll find top secret information in my hands and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I’ll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with Mr. and Mrs. Psychopath and a couple of interns you picked up quite literally off the street. Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time. He’ll be a very, very proud big brother.” Finishing the drink, Magnussen set down the glass again.

“The fact that you know it’s going to happen isn’t going to stop it,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Then why am I smiling? Ask me.”

John took a step forward. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves… and everything he holds dear. Let me show you the Appledore vaults.”

Magnussen rose to his feet and crossed the room into a study. “C’mon,” John said softly and bitterly, touching Scottie on the boy’s shoulder as he started to follow Sherlock after Magnussen. Scottie made a low moan in the back of his throat, reminded himself specifically of why he had wanted to come into Magnussen’s lair at this particular moment in time, and then trailed after the others.

“The entrance to my vaults,” Magnussen said, stopping in front of a set of wooden doors. “This is where I keep you all.” Taking hold of their handles, Magnussen pulled the heavy doors open to reveal a small room, so white and so brightly lit that it looked like the backdrop of a cartoon, and containing absolutely nothing save a single armchair at its center.

“Okay…” blinked John. “So where are the vaults, then?”

“Vaults?” Magnussen echoed, turning back to them. “What vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building. They’re all in here,” the man purred, taking a seat in the chair. “The Appledore vaults are my mind palace. You know about mind palaces, don’t you, Sherlock? How to store information so you never forget it - by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes… and down I go to my vaults.” Magnussen demonstrated for them. “I can go anywhere inside my vaults… my memories. I’ll look at the files on Mrs. Watson.”

Magnussen started to hum almost inaudibly to himself. From outside the room Scottie looked up at Sherlock, who had closed his eyes and shook his head a little, teeth bared. John started back at Magnussen in complete befuddlement. The man cleared his throat after a moment and smiled humorlessly down at the floor.

“Mm. Ah. This is one of my favorites.” Magnussen mimed opening up a folder and flipping through some of its pages. “Oh, it’s so exciting,” he chuckled. “All those wet jobs for the CIA. Ooh! She’s gone a bit… freelance now. Bad girl. Ah, she is so wicked. I can really see why you like her.” Pretending to shut the drawer again, Magnussen let his eyes flutter open and looked victoriously at Sherlock. “You see?”

John cleared his throat once more. “So there are no documents. You don’t actually have anything here.”

“Oh, sometimes I send out for something… if I really need it… but mostly I just remember it all.”

“I don’t understand,” John shook his head.

“You should have that on a T-shirt.”

Suddenly Scottie pushed out in front of Sherlock and John, accompanied by his own vocalized trumpet fanfare, and unzipped his jacket in front of Magnussen to reveal that his own T-shirt actually did have the phrase ‘I don’t understand’ printed across it. After a moment he jumped and did a 180 to display the message to Sherlock and John as well, and all three of them proceeded to stare on in stunned silence. Scottie looked back at Magnussen over his shoulder and then back at the others and his cheeky grin faded.

“Seriously? Nothing?” Beat. “Well I thought it was clever. I’ve got the back prepped too, but we’re not quite there yet.” More silence. “Okay… this is getting weird. I’ll wait outside.” Looking sheepish, Scottie squeezed back through Sherlock and John and started towards the room they began in. Magnussen rose and started to button his jacket but didn’t say anything. 

“Then at least explain that,” Sherlock suddenly blurted, gesturing behind himself. “It seems a small compensation, considering.”

“I’m sorry?” Magnussen blinked. “Explain what?”

“Him. Scottie. And Emily, while you’re at it. What are they? What is their whole deal?”

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t you think you’d have better luck asking them yourself? Well. Assuming you get another opportunity, that is. Let’s go outside. They’ll be here shortly.” Magnussen came between them and kept going. “Can’t wait to see you arrested…”

“Sherlock,” John said again quietly, “what was that? Asking about Scottie and Emily? Was that part of your plan? Do we have a plan?” But Sherlock didn’t answer. “Sherlock,” John tried again. When his friend continued to not respond John turned and walked away.

Scottie and Magnussen were already out on the patio when John caught up to them. “You’re a fucking great big bag of dicks,” Scottie was saying bitterly.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to talk. What are you now, twenty? That puts you in the same boat as Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Should’ve stayed back with the other one, perhaps.”

“Scottie,” John warned.

“They’re taking their time, aren’t they?” Magnussen mused, turning to face the other man.

“I still don’t understand”

“And there’s the back of the T-shirt.”

“BOOM. THERE IT IS.” Scottie flung his jacket off the rest of the way and threw it to the side, exposing the backside of his shirt, which had ‘I still don’t understand’ on it.

John stared back, mouth opened, for a couple seconds before angrily shouting “WHY DO YOU FEEL THE NEED?”

“I’m the comic relief,” Scottie pouted. “I figured you could use some of that right about now.” He looked from John to Sherlock, who had just appeared in the doorway to the patio, and saw that they were both completely at a loss for words.

Magnussen nodded slowly. “Mm. Yes, I do believe you’re quite right. In fact, I could probably go for a bit of that right now. And you’ve got the perfect, goofy round face for it, too. I’d like to punch it.”

Scottie’s eyes widened for a moment. “Um. Th-Thanks?” he stammered, now making an uncomfortable face.

“Bring it over here for a minute,” Magnussen requested. “Come on.”

Scottie went back to holding his tongue, realizing the direction he’d just made this scene go and immediately regretting having said anything. He turned his head back to Sherlock, but the detective wouldn’t meet his eyes. After a moment he nodded.

“Come now,” insisted Magnussen. “Don’t disappoint your daddies.” But Scottie wouldn’t budge. He stiffened, determined to remain firmly rooted to the ground. “For Emily. Bring me your face.”

“Scottie…” Sherlock said slowly. “Please. Just… Just do as he says.”

Although it went against every last instinct of his, there was something about Sherlock telling him to obey that made Scottie listen. He seemed broken, somehow; even more so than when he was lying in the hospital, or after he’d bolted and looked like death. Scottie had to look away. Sucking in a deep breath, the boy forced himself to take a couple of steps towards Magnussen.

“Good boy,” the man purred. “Lean forward a bit and stick your face out. Please?” Scottie pursed his lips, took another sharp breath, and did so. Magnussen chuckled softly at the obedience that appeared to be physically paining Scottie. “Now, can I flick it? Can I… flick your face?”

“No,” Scottie whispered sourly.

“I’m sorry?”

The boy threw his head back, puffing out his cheeks, and then deflated them again just before he brought his head forward and glared at Magnussen. Magnussen smirked. The man brought his hand up against Scottie’s face flicked it with his middle finger just below the edge of the boy’s glasses. Scottie felt a shiver run down his spine and anger began to boil up inside him. He balled up his fists and went right on glaring. Magnussen repeated the gesture.

“I just love doing this,” Magnussen mused. He turned to look over his shoulder at Sherlock, who kept his gaze fixed on the floor, and then John, who was a bit closer to him and looking on with a clenched jaw. “I could do it all day.” Magnussen faced Scottie again and flicked him a third time. “You know, if we’re waiting too much longer, I might just have a go with the both of them as well,” he told Scottie. “How does that sound? Actually no; don’t answer. Take your glasses for me, will you?”

Scottie narrowed his eyes even more.

“Very well,” Magnussen breathed. “I’ll help you with that.” Magnussen reached out and plucked the spectacles from Scottie’s face, which he then tossed aside carelessly.

Scottie took an instinctive step towards them, but was stopped by a warning “ah-ah”. The boy stuck his tongue against his cheek and stepped back into place. Everything was slightly blurry now, which only made the whole scenario worse for him.

“It works like this, John,” Magnussen said loudly. “I know who Mary hurt and killed.” He flicked Scottie’s cheek once more, slightly higher than before now that the glasses were out of the way. “I know where to find people who hate her.” Scottie was flicked twice more. “I know where they live. I know their phone numbers.” Flick. Flick. “All in my mind palace - all of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down. And I will… unless Scottie lets me flick his face.” Magnussen glanced back at John again, grinning wickedly, and then turned to Scottie. “A lot of pressure, isn’t it?” Flick. Flick. Flick.

“This is what I do to people,” he said loudly. “This is what I do to whole countries…” Magnussen flicked Scottie yet another time. “Just because I know. Can I do your eye now?” Scottie turned his head away. “See if you can keep it open, hm?” Scottie started to bring his neck back around and was immediately flicked right on his eyebrow.

The boy flinched.

And then he snapped.

Without warning Scottie darted out of the way before Magnussen could launch a second attack of this nature. The boy came at John, pulled out the handgun before the doctor even knew what was happening, and then promptly fired it multiple times into Magnussen. His vision still very much obscured, Scottie hadn’t the slightest idea where exactly the bullets were striking the man, but it didn’t make much of a difference. Magnussen’s lifeless form fell backwards. John tackled the gun away from Scottie and let it fall to the ground.

His heart racing, Scottie kept his eyes on Magnussen’s blurry form. Although he didn’t really know what good it would do, John threw his arms tightly around Scottie from behind. Scottie swallowed and held onto them. Next thing they knew a helicopter was approaching from above. All three of them looked up towards it. Its roaring was loud, and it whipped up the air around them, causing their hair to lash about and smack against their faces.

“Do you think they saw who did it?” Sherlock asked loudly, suddenly at Scottie and John’s side.

“I don’t know,” John yelled back. “Probably?”

Knowing what he had to do, Scottie tore away from John’s grasp and scooped up his glasses, which were a little scratched but thankfully not completely broken.

“Scottie!” John shouted, taking a step forward.

“Stay back!” the boy yelled and brought his hands into the air slowly.

“Christ, Scottie!”

“Let him,” Sherlock instructed.

Scottie could now see the armed police that were coming towards the patio. He swallowed and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

“I’m sorry, Emily,” he whispered, knowing that no one else could hear him. “I really, really fucked this up this time.”

\---

“I hope you feel responsible for this.”

Sherlock took in a sharp breath and looked away. “So... what happens to him now?” the detective asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “But we’ll work something out. Regardless of his motives, your son - oh don’t give me that look, he is your son and you know it - your son has just murdered a man in cold blood, and we both know that that sort of thing cannot be overlooked. Especially with how influential Charles Magnussen is… was.”

They were standing outside Appledore still. Scottie had been since put into handcuffs and dragged off somewhere by the armed officials, and Sherlock lost sight of John during all the commotion. Now he and his brother were standing beside the chopper Mycroft had arrived in.

“Did you put him up to it?” Sherlock asked accusingly.

Mycroft tilted his head and made a face. “I beg your pardon?”

“Was this your doing?” rephrased Sherlock. “All of this. Bringing him into my life, feeding him information only the two of us could possibly know so that I would be interested in him, to ultimately get me to lead him straight to Magnussen and then take him out in such a way that you cannot possibly be held accountable for?”

Mycroft folded his arms and scoffed. “That’s preposterous! I would never trust a child with such valuable information, much less rely on one for a task as high-risk as one of that nature would undoubtedly be.”

Sherlock closer and dropped his voice. “You don’t suppose he was working for Magnussen then?” he wondered. “And that’s why he killed him? To... get out, so to speak?

“Don’t you think you would have noticed if that were the case?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore, to be quite honest!” Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his arms out to the side. As if frustrated, he quickly paced around in a small circle and then reigned himself back into the conversation. “He knows things, Mycroft. They both do. And not the sort of thing you could figure out with a bit of dedicated research. Highly confidential information. Personal and private experiences. Apparently the near future, too - more than once I’ve caught them saying something in response to an event that hadn’t happened yet, or recognizing people they should have no way of knowing already! Sometimes even saying obscuring things at the same exact time as me!”

“...Sherlock.”

“When he and Emily first showed up here they were with another girl, Blaise. I suspect it’s a nickname but I never bothered to ask her real one. Not important. Thing is, they took me to an alley where there was this… 20th century police call box. They were all very vague about the whole thing, but insisted that that was how they got there, and after Blaise left the box had disappeared again.”

Mycroft stiffened. “Sherlock Holmes, of all things… I hope you aren't about to seriously suggest that Doctor Who is real and your adopted children arrived in the bloody TARDIS.”

“The what?” blinked Sherlock.

“A spaceship from a fictional BBC program. Time machine, if you will.” Mycroft looked slightly annoyed, although it was unclear as to whether this was in regards to him actually having answer for that or because he couldn’t believe he was seriously having such a conversation with his younger brother.

“Look, I know it sounds crazy,” Sherlock admitted, “but I also know what I saw, and it very well might have been just that! And it was larger on the inside than out. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“I fear that Scottie and Emily have put these silly ideas into your head and you may be reading too far into them, brother dearest. There are more pressing matters at the moment. Perhaps you ought to put your concern into those. Merry Christmas.”

With a curt dip of his head, Mycroft turned and began to walk away. Sherlock spun in another small circle and scrubbed his hands over his face.

\---

Scottie squinted up at the plane nervously, then back at his friends and flatmates, and finally to an expectant Mycroft. “This might have been easier to deal with if you were still not a legal adult,” the older man said sternly. “But all things considered, you got off much easier than most in this sort of ordeal.”

The boy cleared his throat. “Um. If I’m going to be gone for… a while, would it be okay if I had a word with Emily first?”

Mycroft gave Scottie a knowing (and perhaps a bit suggestive) look and nodded. After thanking him awkwardly, he and Emily started towards each other, finally splitting the distance between Mycroft and the others. In an attempt to make light of the situation, Scottie was about say something inappropriately timed that he had been quietly preparing in the past few minutes, but before he even had the chance to share Emily slapped him across the face.

Scottie stumbled backwards in surprise. “The hell was that f--”

Emily smacked his other cheek. “What were you thinking?!” she demanded, teary-eyed. “It should have been Sherlock! Not… not you!”

“He was being an asshole, okay?” Scottie shot back defensively. “Look, you know I’m weird about being touched, particularly by strangers, and… I understand you missed the whole scene where he was physically harassing me. I’m sorry. But he did have it coming and you probably would’ve done the exact same thing in my shoes.”

“I wouldn’t have killed a man!”

“No, but you charged at a serial killer once and wound up hospitalized for a week! How is that any less reckless?”

“You’re a murderer! Again!"

Scottie huffed. “Well, technically speaking, he was a fictional character scripted to die anyway. Who also most definitely deserved it. And what do you mean, 'again?' I know I kicked Moriarty off of Saint Bart's that one time, but then the series reset and therefore he isn't actually dead. So it doesn't count."

Emily leaned closer, and for half a second Scottie thought she was going to assault him again. Instead she hugged onto the boy, still very much on the brink of crying. “We’ll get through this,” she promised. “You’ll see. Blaise will show up, just like last time, and take us back home in the TARDIS. She will. She has to.”

Scottie hoped that she was right, but he didn’t admit this out loud. Besides, Blaise’s number didn’t work in that universe, and she was hardly online as of late, so chances of reaching her anytime soon seemed slim. With his arms still wrapped around her, Scottie nonchalantly changed the subject. “Hey. Since this might be the last time I see you in person, like, ever… there’s something I have to get off my chest. You know those Thin Mints we had in the flat earlier this month?”

“The ones I specially ordered online because apparently England doesn’t know how Girl Scouts are supposed to work and then I got mad when Sherlock denied eating the last one?”

“Yeah. Those. I, uh… There was this squirrel in the window and he looked hungry, so I might have, ah…”

Finally letting go of the embrace but still keeping her hands firmly around the boy’s upper arms, Emily leaned away and stared back at Scottie, her eyes a mix of horror and betrayal. “Are you telling me you stole the last Thin Mint and wasted it on a squirrel?” she asked in disbelief. Her grip tightened.

“...I might be. Whelp. Goodbye forever!”

“GO SUCK A DICK!” Angrily, Emily pushed at Scottie and he stumbled back a couple steps.

Scottie laughed. He preferred Emily being mad at him over her cheesey heart-to-hearts. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll have more luck with that in Eastern Europe!”

Without responding, Scottie made his way closer to the plane. He stopped momentarily before boarding to call out over his shoulder “Whelp. Goodbye, I guess. I love you all… Except for you, Mycroft. I can’t fucking stand you.” Afterwards the others said nothing and the aircraft took off from its runway. At last John came forward and put a sympathetic hand on Emily’s shoulder.

“I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now,” he tried.

Emily wrinkled her nose. “Well to be perfectly honest, John, I’m feeling a lot like that bastard wasted my last Thin Mint and nearly got away with it.”

John wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this remark and let his hand drop awkwardly. The further away the plane went, the quieter the immediate vicinity grew. When at last it disappeared in the distance Mary started to head back to her car. “C’mon,” she said softly to Emily, Sherlock, and John. With an exasperated sigh Emily climbed into the back seat with Sherlock. But they had only just gotten the vehicle started when Mycroft’s mobile went off. Emily wasn’t sure what was being said, but just in case, she instructed John to wait for her and hopped out again.

Mycroft lowered the still connected phone and whipped his head around to Emily, who was at his side now. “Jim Moriarty. What do you know about this?”

“...um. Just that he was a consulting criminal who killed himself around the time Sherlock faked his own death?”

“There’s no sense in lying to me, Miss Claus. The British government has been keeping tabs on you and your colleague for some time now and we know that you’re more informed than you let on. So I’m going to ask you again: what do you know about Moriarty being back?”

Emily hesitated. “Uh. Well. I’m not psychic, Mr. Holmes. If that’s what you’re implying.”

“Emily Marie Claus--”

“I don’t know! Scottie might’ve read some spoiler or something!”

Mycroft pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Aright. Fine. What’s his number?”

“Can’t you just shoot the plane down instead?”

The Watsons and Sherlock were out of the car again, and all four sets of shocked eyes locked onto Emily for this. “Emily!” John gaped. “Don’t joke about that. He’s your best friend!”

“Yeah, who stole the last Thin Mint in the entire building!”

Mycroft frowned. “You mean those American biscuits that little girls in uniform sell?”

“He doesn’t even like Thin Mints!”

“Okay, I can understand why you might be upset about something like that, but it’s hardly an excuse for--”

“Girl Scout season isn’t in another six months! And it takes even longer to ship them over from another country!”

Ignoring her now, Mycroft stepped away and picked up his phone again. “Change of plans: we’ll be needing the boy back as quickly as possible. Turn her around.”

“SHOOT IT DOWN!” Emily shouted into the receiver over him, suddenly back at Mycroft’s side and standing on her tiptoes to reach.

Almost in a frenzy, the elder Holmes brother threw an arm around the girl, his hand cupping over her mouth. Emily flailed and attempted to squirm out of the much older gentleman’s grasp with little success. “No!” Mycroft shouted into the phone. “Merciful God, do not fire at that plane! I repeat, HOLD YOUR FIRE!”

\---

Scottie glanced at the time on his phone. It had been more than five minutes since takeoff, and his heart fell at the realization that he probably hadn’t been deemed worth bringing back in light of the news of Moriarty’s return. He kept telling himself not to worry because just as Emily had predicted, Blaise was bound to show up again any minute now. He’d wake up in his own bed, just as before, back in the US, and then wait another year or two for the fourth season to air. At least, that’s what he desperately wanted to believe. But it was seeming less and less likely.

The boy felt himself getting antsier by the minute. In an attempt to escape his own thoughts and doubts, he decided to instead try exploring around the plane. He didn’t see any flight attendants to keep him in his seat, so without checking to see if a seatbelt sign was on or not, Scottie got up and made his way towards the flight deck. Without anyone stopping him, Scottie pushed open the door and stepped inside of the compartment.

What he didn’t expect to see was the plane being flown by none other than Willow. Her chair spun around slowly and she greeted Scottie with a devious smile.

“Did you miss me?”

\---

AUTHORS NOTE: Hey, Scottie and Emily here (more or less)! First off we just want to say that if you actually read this entire thing then, well, props, but also thank you? I guess? Anyway, writing has been fun and very much fueled by your positive feedback. Due to the insanely long wait between seasons it might be quite a while before this gets updated, but in the meantime we were debating tackling some of the cases mentioned on John's blog. If you have any questions/comments/suggestions/insults/fan art(!) or just want to say hi or whatever, please feel free to leave us a comment or message us on here or at eclaus at cca dot edu. Thanks again!


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